Simple Murders
by scarylolita
Summary: Craig spends his days working in a lab, analysing human remains for Park County PD. After a series of bodies are found with their faces disfigured, fingerprints burned off and teeth removed, local authorities determine they are looking for a serial killer who knows how to cover his tracks. Slash/warnings inside.
1. The body in the woods

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Note: I'm no expert, so there might be some inaccuracies, but just ignore them.**

 **Warnings: this fic revolves around violent crimes and might get grim / fic contains some slash**

 **Full summary: Craig spends his days working in a lab, analysing human remains for Park County PD. After a series of bodies are found with their faces disfigured, fingerprints burned off and teeth removed, local authorities determine they are looking for a serial killer who knows how to cover up his tracks. Jane Does keep piling up and Craig is in charge of putting faces to the unidentifiable women, but when he becomes involved on an intimate level it becomes difficult to remain objective and separate his work life from his personal life. Craig is good at dealing with the dead, but he still has a lot to learn about the living. Now is the time to learn.**

* * *

I'm sitting in the living room as Bebe twirls around, showing me her outfit. She's all done up in a little black dress and matching velvet heels.

"Got a hot date?" I ask, eying her up and down.

She nods her head when she's not longer spinning in circles. "Wanna come?" she offers me.

"On your date?" I snort. "No, thank you."

"Kyle can bring a friend. We can double."

I refrain from rolling my eyes. The offer isn't at all tantalizing.

Bebe started dating Kyle earlier this year after breaking things off with Clyde. Things seem to be going well. I never hear her complain about him. She used to complain about Clyde a lot. To Bebe, he was always too much or too little of something. I suppose it's a good sign that she doesn't think the same about Kyle. They seem right for one another.

"Who does Kyle know that's gay?" I ask.

"Kenny likes men," she reveals. "Kenny likes everyone."

"Kenny is a _cop_ ," I deadpan. "I don't deal with cops in my free time."

"Why?" she pries with a little laugh, making it seem likes she already knows what I'm going to say.

"I see them more than enough at work. They come barging into my lab like they own the damn place… demanding this and that. It's annoying. I can't work when they hover over my shoulder like vultures… Besides, the police force is corrupt. The justice system favours certain kinds of people and demonizes others. Governments were built on corruption. Patriotism is a joke. People are ignorant if they think the system is broken because it has always been this way. You can't _fix_ what wasn't _broken_ , so… nothing changes."

"You sound so cynical."

"I'm not cynical," I insist. "I'm pragmatic."

"So, you're a hippie-dippy cop hater?"

"If that's how you want to word it, then sure."

"Half of our high school friends became cops," Bebe says. "Lola, Clyde, Jason, Stan and Kevin are cops, too…"

"I'm not hating on individual cops," I point out. "I'm criticizing the system as a general whole. It's flawed and I don't like that... Plus, Sergeant Yates is a racist idiot."

She shrugs. "Still, you shouldn't be so bitter. Kenny isn't a power hungry asshole. None of our friends are. They're good people who want to do good."

"Either way, no," I continue, dismissing her attempt at reason. "Kenny used to date my cousin, Rebecca, so it would make things weird. I'd prefer to just stay in."

"All you do is stay in," Bebe whines. "Live a little… and maybe you'll get a good orgasm out of it."

I scoff at that. "I don't fuck on the first date. I'm not _you_."

I'm only teasing her. I don't actually care that she fucks on the first date. If I actually had the time and effort to date, maybe I would, too.

"When is the last time you've had sex?" she asks me straight up.

"I'll admit that I'm going through… a dry spell, so to speak," I confess. "Four years, to be exact… but it's because I'm not looking. If I was, I'm sure I would be able to find someone. I'd rather not have a relationship purely based on physical intimacy."

"God, you're such a dork," she murmurs. "You're cute as hell. You're young. You're smart. You have a really good job. You're independent. You could definitely find a guy. What's stopping you?"

"I prefer to just work," I tell her. "In the lab, people don't talk back."

"They're not even people, Craig," Bebe says factually. "They're just… bodies. Empty."

"At the end of the day they still _were_ people, Bebe," I reason.

"So, the only kinds of people you can connect with are the ones who are dead?" She rolls her eyes. "You have no social skills, Craig. You need to come out more. You spend too much time with the dead. Come out and join me with the living, okay?"

People are far less complicated when they can't talk back. That's what I've learned. I work in a forensics lab identifying human remains to try and determine a cause of death. It's grim, but I like what I do. I don't tell strangers any of that, though. My job title is medical examiner, but I usually just say I work for the police or I am a doctor. It's true, though in a vague sense.

"I'm fine," I promise her. "Really. I'm just going to read a bit tonight."

"Read what?" she asks me. "Case files? Medical journals?"

"Yeah," I admit.

She rolls her eyes at me again. "Naturally. Well, I'll see you later I guess… but don't wait up."

I hold my hand up, waving her off.

I'm not lonely. That's the truth. I know Bebe thinks I am and wants more than anything to see me happily settled down with someone who will treat me right… but my work comes first. No one understands how much I value my job. It's my life and no one likes to be in second place.

I stopped looking after my last relationship. I thought it'd be end game, but the universe had other plans. I'm not waiting for anything, either. I have come to realize that things you desire always appear when you stop thinking about them.

* * *

The following morning, I head to the lab. I put on my white coat and am immediately annoyed when I see Kenny McCormick in my way.

"What do you got for us?" he asks.

"Give me a damn minute, I just got here and my assistant is off today."

My assistant is Sarah Peterson – a friend of my younger sister, Ruby. They live together along with Kenny's sister, Karen.

Sarah is young, but she's good at what she does. She kind of reminds me of myself in that way.

I slap on my gloves as I walk towards the counter. "Hm…" I muse, staring down at a gruesome looking corpse. This is the most mangled one I've come in contact with.

"Eughhhh…" Kenny says as he takes in the sight.

I glance up at him, smirking slightly. He's so squeamish. "You okay being here?"

"Fine," he insists. "She was found in the woods by hunters – Jimbo Kern and Ned Gerblansky. We questioned them at the scene, but they couldn't tell us much. It's a clear homicide, though." A pause. "So, what do you see?"

"Brunette female… Caucasian… late teens or early twenties," I start, making notes to myself. "No fingerprints because the tips were burned…" I open her mouth. "And no teeth, so no dental records. Great. Apart from that, her face is too mutilated to recognize. So, there goes that." I pause, grabbing the skull and turning it slightly. "She was hit in the head… I have a feeling that isn't how she died, though. Decomposition suggests she died seven to ten days ago."

"You can tell all that just by looking at it?"

"Not an _it_ , Kenny," I say. "She was a girl."

"Sorry, sorry," he murmurs.

"And, yes, I can tell all that just by looking at her because I'm very good at what I do," I say simply.

I have my M.D. as well as a degree in forensic pathology. I worked hard in school and it all paid off.

"Smarty pants," Kenny comments. "She's in rough shape…"

"Because of her exposure to certain elements," I tell him. There are a lot of factors that can increase or decrease the rate of decomposition in a human body – temperature, oxygen, insects, humidity... I don't want to make any guesses, but I think rodents and insects got to her and made quick work. I glance up at Kenny and say, "Let me do my work and come back later on for a concrete answer."

With that, he nods and leaves me to do my work.

* * *

Eventually, Kenny inevitably returns. By now, I have all of the answers ready for show and tell.

"So…?" he starts.

"Is this your case or something?" I ask him before getting down to business.

"Yeah, sex crimes is taking over and that's my division. So, cooperate, _Doctor_."

"Why not homicide?"

Kenny stares at me. "Because it's obvious what happened before she was killed."

"That's guesswork," I say. "I don't like guesswork."

"Then do your job and tell me what the hell happened to this girl," he challenges.

"Should we wait for your partner?" I ask.

"Lola isn't coming in," he says. "She doesn't like this part, so I'll be relaying."

I grind my teeth. "Fine," I say. "All right, she wasn't buried, so she was exposed to natural elements for nine or so days. The exact time is difficult to determine due to the rate of decomposition. Decomposition was accelerated because she was left out in the open. Her body was likely found by scavengers – bugs, rodents and whatever else. They ate at her. I found maggots in her mouth and eye sockets as well as in the wound on her stomach. Scavengers were likely attracted to her open wounds. Rats can strip a body in days and flies oviposit their eggs in openings and wounds, which certainly didn't help the swelling in the trauma regions."

"Fucking gross…" Kenny gags dramatically. "Any defensive wounds?"

"She was straining," I say, lifting one of her arms up, touching the wounds around her wrists. "There are a lot of deep rope burns on her skin. She was fighting hard to free herself. I found traces of semen. She was also pregnant by approximately four weeks, which is perhaps why the killer discarded the body. I removed the fetus, which wasn't growing at a healthy rate. At least now we have some DNA." I gesture to a metal tray where I've displayed the specimen, but Kenny's brows draw together and his eyes glaze over. "By that and the lack of food in her stomach, I think she was definitely malnourished, possibly being starved. Even if she was able to carry to full term, there is no way that baby would have survived at this rate."

"God…" he whispers weakly.

"If this is too much for you…" I trail off, silently telling him that he can leave.

He shakes his head. "I'm fine, I just…" he pauses.

For a moment, I'm quiet. I don't try to talk to him. I just give him a minute to collect himself.

"I'm new to sex crimes," he murmurs. "It's… definitely a whole other ballpark. I transferred here from the narcotics division."

Clyde, Lola, Kevin and Jason work sex crimes, too. Stan is narcotics along with many others. It's the largest division.

"Why?" I ask.

"People were needed," he admits simply. "Stan... isn't made for a job like this."

I know what it can be like. Kenny went from doing drug busts to investigating sex crimes. It's a big jump and maybe he wasn't aware of exactly what he was signing himself up for. He seems like a sympathetic person, so this can't be easy for him. It's hard for a lot of people to acknowledge that the world is this cruel and evil.

"So, there's a possible motive, hm?" I say.

"Yeah," Kenny says softly, frowning.

"So, moving forward, there are splinters of some sort behind her head, which tells me she was hit with a weapon that was made of wood," I continue. "It wasn't what killed her, but it could have incapacitated her. She has other marks on her body, though, so she may have just been getting a beating. Whoever did this may not have been trying to knock her out."

"Christ…"

I tilt her head up, exposing the ring around her neck. "Asphyxiation. Whoever killed her was likely strangling her, probably for some sick sexual gratification as he assaulted her. She has lacerations on her back, probably from a belt. There are welts on her feet, which is actually an old form of torture. He probably didn't want her to be able to stand up. With the piece of wood, she was also struck in the stomach and face numerous times, which is why we can't identify her as easily as we typically could. Her finger tips were severely burnt and her teeth were removed… probably to prevent us from being able to check her fingerprints and dental records. From the marks on the finger bones, I think they were cut off with something similar to a hand saw. We ran a blood test, but there were no matches in the system. So, I'm thinking this girl wasn't local or she simply never had blood work done."

"What the hell…" Kenny whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. "This sick fuck knew what we'd be looking for. He made things either really difficult or impossible…"

"Perhaps," I say. "DNA analysts will be able to tell us exactly what kind of wood and what it might be from. The killing blow was the stab wound abdomen. Whoever killed this woman brutally tortured her. She experienced weeks of abuse and then finally she is no longer desired. So, the killer pulled out her teeth, burned off her fingerprints, beat her until she was unrecognizable and then stabbed her and she finally bled to death. There was hemorrhaging on her wounds, so she was alive for most of it. I think she was stabbed with a long hooked object, a sickle perhaps. The incision is small, but it did a lot of damage internally."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kenny whispers, looking grievous. "Overkill… They really did a number on the poor girl… She must have been in so much pain."

"Also… there are signs of past and present long-term sexual abuse," I add. "There is perineal scarring… which often means rape. Whoever this girl was, she had a very hard life."

"Well, she's still Jane Doe…" Kenny murmurs. "What we have of her so far doesn't fit any missing person reports. We're going to widen the search. Maybe this girl ended up in South Park because she was running away."

"A very real possibility," I tell him. "In my experience, this kind of scarring is often found in victims who are sex workers."

"So… it's possible she wasn't raped? Jane Doe was a workin' gal?"

"No, I'm not saying that," I explain. "She was definitely raped. People aren't kind to sex workers. They're too often treated like expendable humans – roughly and without care. The statistic of sex workers who are raped and brutalized is alarmingly high."

"It's not surprising, though," Kenny mutters. "I mean, it's sad, but… it isn't surprising. It's a dangerous career."

"Well, sometimes careers aren't a choice," I argue with him. "Ever heard of survival sex? Prostituting oneself out of pure necessity. Often these men and women are extremely disadvantaged, homeless or living in poverty. Sexual intercourse might be exchanged for shelter, food or other basic necessities rather than just cash."

"Or drugs," Kenny adds.

"Perhaps, but this girl was clean," I say. "I ran a tox-screen. No trace of any illicit substances were found in her system. If she was drugged at any point if her captivity, it's out of her system now."

"How long do you think she was being held captive?"

"At least a month," I state. "I'm going to send the semen and the fetus for DNA testing… but something tells me we aren't going to find anything on the father. If he knew to eliminate our chance at identifying the victim by teeth and fingerprints, I doubt DNA will lead us to him. I highly doubt he's in the system at all."

"Damn it," Kenny hisses.

"There is a noticeable chunk of hair missing," I add, tilting the head to show Kenny where it is. "Cleanly cut, probably with scissors. A lot of killers like to keep souvenirs of their victims…"

"Could be the start to a string of serial killings… but South Park isn't a big place. It'd be a first… I'm not going to make any assumptions yet. We've only found one body."

"Yeah, wait for a few more bodies," I say bitterly.

Kenny sighs. "This killer might know how to cover his trail, but if he's beating her with a piece of wood and stabbing her with a sickle… he's probably not sophisticated."

"Probably not," I concur.

"Do you like your job?" he then asks me out of the blue.

"I love it," I tell him. "Why?"

"I was just wondering," he admits. "It's… a really grim job. What do you love about it?"

"I am good at it," I start. "I am comfortable. I am confident. Sometimes I take on students. I like to teach them what I know in hopes that they'll someday be as good as I am. Besides, I like to honour the people whose bodies are brought in here by finding out exactly how they died. I like finding out the truth."

Kenny nods his head. He probably needed incentive. He's probably wondering if he made the right choice switching divisions. "All right. That's good enough for me."

With that, he doesn't linger. He wanders off and leaves me to write up my report.

* * *

On my way out of the building, Kenny stops me. "Hey," he calls.

I pause and turn away as he catches up. "What?" I ask.

"Wanna get a beer?" he offers.

"No, I should go home," I say.

"Come on," he urges.

"Why? Did Bebe talk to you and tell you I need the stick removed from my ass or something?"

"Or something," he admits with a little laugh.

"Well, I'm fine," I insist.

"Why are you so cold and curt to me? We've known each other for most of our lives…"

"Cops annoy me," I tell him.

"Because they get in your face all the time?"

"That and other things, _officer_ ," I say.

"Well, either way, I'm a detective, not an officer," he points out.

"Same thing," I insist. "Still a cop."

"Why are you such a hater?" he asks, laughing in disbelief.

"Cops are pushy," I explain. "My skill isn't something that they seem to value. All they value is my convenience. I'm there to do the hard, _yucky_ part." I pause and then add, "With how much Bebe loves to talk, I'm surprised she hasn't relayed all this to you already."

"She has," he admits. "I just wanted to hear the less embellished version… but it turns out she didn't embellish as much as I thought."

"Cops, military, navy…" I pause. "I don't like any of it."

"Why?" he pries.

"Because of the corruption," I explain. "Look, don't feign ignorance. Stan is married to Wendy Testaburger. I'm sure you hear about this kind of thing from her all the time." I pause and stare at him. His eyebrows are drawn together and he's frowning. I let out a sigh and say, " _Please_ don't tell me you're a warmonger. We have absolutely no business invading other countries."

Kenny shakes his head and shrugs. "I agree with you and I can sense that this is something you are passionate about, but there are a lot of good people, too. Soldiers and cops aren't all trash."

"Look, I don't believe in moral absolutism and I know there are always two sides to one story, but I can't ever believe that all these wars are a good thing," I say. "Sure, there are reasons for why people go to war, why people kill and so on, but can a war be moral and pure in terms of motive? Well, certainly not when we're being lied to about why the war is going on and what is happening over there. We know America's side to the story, but what about the countries we invade? What is their side to the story?"

Kenny holds up his hands. "Fine, fine… I get it, you're liberal as hell, but you do realize you work for the government. You were appointed to this job and your office is in a government building."

"I do this because I love it," I tell him simply. "I can still be critical of the way our society works. It isn't like my beliefs hinder my work. I'm still working with you, after all."

"I suppose so," he relents. "Come on, stop arguing with me and let me buy you a beer."

"Fine," I say. "One beer, then you leave me alone."

He smiles smugly. "Deal."

* * *

We head to the pub my uncle Skeeter owns. It's pretty much the only place in town. I walked to work, so we take Kenny's car. When we get there, we sit at a booth and Kenny buys me a drink. Rum and coke.

"How did you know I like rum and coke?" I ask him.

"I, uh, remember you overindulging on them a few times when we were in high school," he admits.

I snort at the memory. "That was a long time ago."

"Guess I took a risk," he says.

"You're lucky they're still my favourite, then," I reply, taking the first sip. I'm just teasing him and I think he sees that.

He's drinking rye. He sits across from me, staring into his cup like he's searching for something.

"What is it?" I probe him.

"How do you keep it all so separate?" he asks me quietly, staring up from his drink and towards me.

"How do _you_?" I retort.

"I don't," he admits, "but there you are and you're so stone-cold and distant as you open up a person's body and dig through their guts… trying to figure out how they were reduced to that. You act like it doesn't even bother you."

I smile, shaking my head. "You have no idea, McCormick. During my early years, I saw a lot of horrible things. You get used to it. Well, perhaps that isn't the right word… I suppose you just learn how to distance yourself from it and look at things in a manner that is purely objective. You get the facts. You do the research. What you're handling isn't a person until you're out of the office. You don't call them by name. You refer to them as 'the victim' and it is easier." He pauses and then adds, "One of my first bodies was of a three year old boy. I didn't think I would be able to do this as a living. It was different than looking at things in a classroom setting. I was suddenly seeing it in real life: a child that was brutalized and killed. This tiny body was laid out in front of me and I was told to determine what happened to him, who he was, how he died, who may have done it…"

"And you succeeded?" Kenny ventures.

"And I succeeded," I confirm. "Because of that, the cops caught the killer and the boy's parents got closure. I mean, sure, I cried about it when I got home because it's always sad when it's a baby… but I still did it. And I keep doing it. I keep on my mask when I'm in the lab and when I leave, I take it off and my emotions return… but until then, I can't afford to take it off. If I get emotional, I can't think objectively and I can't figure things out. Emotions cloud your senses."

"I can't do that," Kenny admits. "I need to trust my gut… and yeah, sometimes it gets me into trouble, but I haven't been wrong so far."

"I suppose that's where we both differ," I tell him. "I can't channel my emotions in a way that is helpful in any way. Everything is somehow slanted."

"How so?" Kenny pries.

I shrug a shoulder. "I don't feel things the way I should feel things. I know I should feel things more deeply, but I am detached. I care, but it's muted. Passion is there, but it's not intense. I think I just don't allow myself to feel things on a deep level because if I welcome it, then the mask will never go back into place. My work will suffer if I am subjective. I won't be able to do my job properly."

"I guess I can understand that," he says softly.

We continue to talk about important things and unimportant things. Well, he does most of the talking. He talks about himself. He tells me his divorce was just finalized. That surprises me.

"Are you happy?" I ask him.

"No," he admits. "I used to think I'd make a good husband… but then I actually became someone's husband and I managed to do everything wrong. I was never around. She hated that. So, she left me."

"You loved her," I assume.

"Yeah," he says. "I did… but I didn't treat her right, so it's probably for the best. I like to think I've learned from it."

"Do you see yourself getting remarried?" I pry.

"Someday, maybe," he muses. "What about you?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Why?"

"Marriage is a trap," I start. "Traditionally, it's a man and it's a woman. The woman is given away like property by her father to her husband. From one man to another. And then there are couples who deviate from this traditional model. Say, two men or two women. These couples are still looked down upon, even though if you go back science supports the fact that homosexuality has been around forever and is found in hundreds of species. I remember the anti-gay rallies that were going on in this town when I was a child. That scared me. By then, I knew I was gay and for a long time those general attitudes caused me to feel ashamed." I pause. "Anyway, if two people are meant to be together, they won't need to be legally bound."

Kenny gives a long nod, but I can tell he wholeheartedly disagrees with everything I just said. "Bebe told me about the professor," he points out offhandedly.

I frown at the drastic subject change. "Remind me to talk to her later… I told her in a moment of weakness. I didn't think she would tell anyone."

I was drunk last year and Bebe asked me why I never opened up. So, I told her about a time when I did and how it blew up in my face.

"Well, y'know how Bebe gets when she drinks – chatty," Kenny says.

That is true enough. Bebe is a gossip. She is also a hair stylist and hears many rumours at work. When she finds out something juicy, she can't wait to spill it to the next pair of ears willing to listen. That's why I don't tell her much. Nonetheless, she has a good knack for finding things out on her own. She's good at reading people, too. She's the opposite of me – a very extroverted people person. I'm a total introvert with no social skills. She was right about that.

"Yes, I was sleeping with my professor," I say somewhat tersely, "but I wasn't sleeping my way to the top. I was already at the top of my class."

"Then… why?" Kenny pries.

"I fell for him," I say simply. "We were working closely together as I was doing my bachelor's degree. I was doing a report on osteogenesis imperfecta… or more commonly referred to as brittle bone disease. In a conventional sense, it's hardly romantic… but I suppose I'm not a conventional person. I barely realized what I was feeling. When two people have a passion, they connect."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-two."

"And how old was he?"

"Thirty-four. He was still young, so it wasn't that much of a jump."

"Twelve years… that's a jump," Kenny mumbles. "What happened?"

I let out a long sigh. "None of your business, McCormick."

He smiles slightly. "Do me a favour."

"Depends what it is…" I murmur somewhat suspiciously.

"Call me by my first name," he requests. "Think that's something you can do?"

"Okay," I agree. "Yes, that's something I can do."

He smiles at me. He smiles too much.

* * *

On Friday, I head to my parents' house. I try to visit them weekly and Friday just happens to be my night off this week. My uncle Skeeter is over along with a few of my dad's friends – Carl Denkins, Jimbo Kern, Ned Gerblansky, Peter Nelson and Darryl Weathers. They're all rednecks and I'm not particularly fond of them. Plus, I know half of them think I'm a deviant for being gay. Darryl is notoriously homophobic. I don't know why my dad still associates with him. I think he's just hoping Darryl will change. They've been friends for such a long time; I doubt he wants to throw it away.

Nonetheless, I'm polite. I don't want to start conflict. I join everyone in the living room and my uncle immediately asks me about the possible serial killer. I guess everyone in town already knows. News spreads fast, even when it's supposedly confidential. Ned and Jimbo probably told everyone about what they found in the woods.

"Er, yeah, the cops don't really know much yet," I say.

"But you're involved?" my mom cuts in, worried.

"Strictly behind the scenes," I promise her. "I just identify the bodies, help run DNA tests to determine who the victims are and how they died… so on."

"Craig is good at what he does," my dad says proudly. "He's very important."

"You must make quite a load of money for that kinda science-y work," Darryl comments.

"I, uh, do well," I confirm vaguely.

Truth is, I make over 100K a year. So, yeah, I do damn well. I am financially stable. I got a full scholarship to a good school, so I didn't even have to worry about taking out loans or burdening my parents with tuition money.

For my parents' last anniversary, I sent them to Hawaii for two weeks. I wanted to give them the vacation they deserved. They dealt with my mood swings for years. They took care of me. Now I can take care of them. I can take care of Ruby when she needs it as well.

It's no secret that I was bratty growing up. When I was little, I was a very out of control child. As I entered puberty, the volatile behaviour subsided and I just got mellow. Too mellow, according to my parents.

Maybe it is because I knew I was gay from a young age and I knew I lived in a town that condemned it. My parents didn't, but it wasn't enough to ease me. Nonetheless, I worked through it and now I can be comfortable with who I am. I kept things quiet until I fell in love for the first time. I didn't want to keep that a secret. So, I didn't. I told people and people were fine. I was fine, too, knowing that things weren't going to break apart. The earth wasn't going to shatter just because I came out. For the first time in my life, things were perfect... but perfection never lasts, does it? It's fleeting, like most things in life.


	2. Something old and something new

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

* * *

"We got results from Boulder," Kenny says to me the following day as he finds me in my office. "Blood was a match. Jane Doe has a name now."

"What's her name?" I ask.

"Elizabeth Warren," he reveals. "She has been missing for the past year – disappeared when she was eighteen. She was nineteen when we found her. Her parents looked, but she was a troublemaker and it was determined that she had likely ran away."

"She probably did run away – she ran away because someone was abusing her," I say. "Tell her parents _that_. It might not be part of why she died, but it's the reason she initially ran away."

"Psychology and profiling isn't part of your job," Kenny points out.

"I know, dick," I say tersely, "but you can be a little bit slow sometimes. All I'm doing is making a hypothesis based on evidence I found. So, go prove me right."

"We haven't figured much out," he admits. "We're putting together the evidence, but it's like it all clashes… None of it fits. Most cases you can kind of put things together like a puzzle, but this is different."

"Maybe the killer is deliberately trying to throw you off," I venture.

"The thought occurred to me," he says solemnly.

I think he's hoping he'll be able to prove me wrong because for someone to abuse a child is too horrible. I know he's seen worse and so have I, but there's still that shred of hope – hope that the story isn't as bad as it seems.

It doesn't matter how this story turns out, though. In the end, the girl is still dead and right now her killer is on the loose.

"Tell me more about the professor," he propositions, circling me like a vulture waiting on his prey. "We have time."

I let out a short-tempered sigh. "Why?" I ask snappily, glancing at him.

"I want to know. I'm nosy. I like putting things together. I'm a detective, after all. I could analyse you if you want. I'm good at this part, Craig. You, on the other hand, suck. So, I thought I'd be nice about it and just ask you upfront instead of making guesses."

"Things ended just after I finished my thesis… I was looking at carniocerebral injuries caused by blunt force trauma in post-mortem examinations."

"Riveting…" Kenny says.

He doesn't care about that. He just wants to know what happened to trigger a breakup.

"So, he dumped you?"

I roll my eyes and then tell him. "No."

"You dumped him?"

"No," I repeat myself.

"So, you didn't dump him and he didn't dump you… but you still broke up…" Kenny states.

"He died, McCormick," I say dully, since it seems to be taking too long. "You're a detective. I thought you'd figure that out much quicker."

"I did," he admits. "I just didn't want to say it. I wanted you to say it."

I scoff at him. "That was really nice of you," I say sarcastically.

He smiles, but it is somehow genuine. Before he can respond, however, his phone rings. He answers it with, "Detective McCormick." Then I see him begin to frown. "All right, coming." When he hangs up, he looks straight at me. "Bad news. Another body was found and apparently it matches the last one – a young woman with no fingerprints, no teeth and no face. I'm going to head down to the crime scene now and later on you'll have another body to autopsy."

"Great," I murmur. "I'll be here."

* * *

When it's my time to shine, Kenny is hovering over my shoulder.

"She was found in the woods near Stark's Pond, same as the first victim," Kenny says to me. "She was dumped there, like she didn't matter… Dogs found her. We've been doing sweeps. We got a team searching the woods now for more bodies. I doubt we'll find any, but…"

"Okay, you can go away now," I tell him.

He doesn't.

"Sarah," I say to my assistant, "escort the detective out, would you?"

"I'm not budging," Kenny says to her before she can get a word out. "Come on, Craig, do your thing and tell me something that will help."

I give him an impatient look, but nonetheless I decide to cooperate. "Redhead, late twenties," I start aloud. "She was probably dumped last night or this morning." I cut open the fabric of the blouse, halting when I get to the navel. "Belly ring," I say, pointing to the simple metal bar in the upper rim. "Worst comes to worst, that could help identify her to anyone she may have been in recent contact with."

When I look up, Kenny is frowning.

"What?" I ask him.

He looks shaken. Nonetheless, he simply responds with, "Uh, nothing… Keep going."

"Are you sure you want to be here for this? I know you have a weak stomach for this kind of thing."

"Keep going," he says again.

So, I do.

"Man…" he murmurs, covering his mouth.

"Can you stop that?" I snap at him. "Let me do my job. You're distracting me!"

"Craig, get away from the body for a minute," he whispers, letting his hand fall. He looks grievous.

I raise an eyebrow at that. "Why?"

"I know who she is…" he says hoarsely. "And so do you. You know that 'mask' you put on when you're in work mode? The one that keeps you objective? Well, pull it off for a second and look at her."

I'm taken aback. "What do you mean?"

He shakes his head. "Just do it, Craig," he says quietly. "Get someone to take over for you. You don't want to do this one."

I begin to feel unsettled, but I pause nonetheless. "I'm the only medical examiner in South Park. I have to do it."

"Who do we know with red hair?" he questions.

"A lot of people," I say. "My dad's side of the family has red hair…"

My sister has red hair. I'm adopted, though, so… I don't. But this isn't my sister. Her hair is a lighter shade of red… she's taller. This isn't her.

Kenny is looking at me so piteously. I don't like it. It's like he's waiting for me to understand and then fall apart.

"It's Rebecca Tucker, Craig," he whispers. "Your cousin."

My heart gets lodged in my throat. "No, it's not," I insist.

"Craig, think," he reasons gently. "That's what you do, right? You are a logical person. So, use your logic. Look at her. Look at her hair color, her skin tone, her body build… She has a navel piercing, just like your cousin. If you look at the side of her right hip, I am sure you'll see a flower tattoo. I used to date her. I know these things. She's your cousin, so you know them, too."

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I don't respond at first. I'm worried that if I do my voice will give away my current mental state. I close my eyes and try to take deep, calming breaths. I can't lose it. Not here, not now. I still have work to do. After a few minutes, I open my eyes and pull the rim of her pants down to look at her hip. There it is – a simple tattoo of an uncolored daisy. I let out a sigh and look at Kenny. "I have work to do," I whisper.

"Dr. Tucker!" Sarah exclaims, cutting in. "You don't have to do this! The bureau would understand! They can't force you to perform your cousin's autopsy!"

"I have to," I say. "We can't waste time and you're not qualified to do my job."

They are both looking at me so piteously. I don't like it.

I feel sick, but I push it aside. I slip that mask back into place and I do my work. Kenny walks out after I shout at him to leave. I don't want him to stare at me with such a sad look. Sarah stays by my side, offering to help in any way she can.

Rebecca was tortured, just like the last girl. There were all the same signs – no more and no less. Whoever is killing these girls… he isn't experimental. He knows exactly what he likes – strangulation, beating, whipping, raping and her feet have been paddled. Rebecca has probably only been missing for a week or two and she was found quick. Her body barely began to decompose.

When I'm finished the autopsy, Sarah tries to follow me to my office. I stop her and say, "I can appreciate your concern, but I need to be alone right now."

I head to my office, locking myself in. I lean against the door, putting a hand over my mouth and stifle a sob.

No one noticed Rebecca went missing. No one was looking for her.

I let out a long, shuddery breath and swipe my eyes before moving towards my desk. I take my cellphone out of a drawer and I make calls to my family. Ruby, my parents… and my uncle Skeeter, who was Rebecca's father.

Everyone is upset and nothing I say is going to change that. I wish I could have delivered the news in person, but I can't leave the building right now and they deserve to know. We won't be able to bury her until this entire mess is over. Her body is evidence and until this case is closed, we might need to look at her again.

God, I hate this. I hate this so much.

When I finally leave my office, Sarah is ready to play twenty questions. She does so shyly. Kenny is a step behind her along with his partner, Lola. In high school, she was friends with Rebecca.

I'm really not in the mood for this right now.

"D-Doctor Tucker," Sarah stutters out, sounding nervous.

"You can call me Craig, Sarah," I say dully. "There's no need to be so formal all the time."

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"No," I tell her, "but what I feel right now doesn't matter. I just want them to catch this pervert."

"We will," Lola says softly. "Just tell us what we need to know. Anything that will help."

"She… did porn," I whisper offhandedly. "That's why she stopped talking to her dad. He didn't want to accept it. He couldn't… It was only a few times, but he still couldn't deal with it." I close my eyes. "There's no way he'd know she was missing."

"This sick fuck knows how to pick his victims," Kenny mutters. "I don't want to make any guesses, but as it is now... he seems to go for girls who are 'unwanted' so no one will notice when they don't come home. We're trying to locate the first victim's parents. You're probably right. She was probably running away from an abusive life when she ran into the killer. Rebecca had a similar situation that involved social isolation."

"He goes after people he thinks won't be missed…?" I murmur. "Rebecca never spoke to her dad, so there's no way he'd know she was kidnapped. And Elizabeth was a young girl who perhaps didn't want to be home. Maybe her family didn't press the issue because they knew why she ran away and didn't want cops sniffing around and figuring out that daddy was probably raping his little girl."

Kenny looks surprised. "That's a pretty huge accusation, Craig."

"Just going with my _gut_ ," I say, quoting what he said to me some days ago.

"Look, I get it, you're upset," Kenny reasons. "If this is taken to trial separately, you'll testify?"

"Obviously," I say. "It's part of my job."

Kenny puts a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

And this time I let him without trying to protest.

* * *

I grieve silently for the following days, but I still do my work and when I'm not at work I'm with my family. They all ask me questions I can't answer, begging for some sort of justice I can't deliver. It's upsetting me. My uncle lost it. He just lost it. He's full of regret and it's driving him up the wall with guilt.

Come Friday, I stay in. I can't be around them anymore. I feel like my presence gives them hope, but every time I open my mouth I can't tell them what they want to hear.

It's nearing 7PM. Bebe is in the kitchen making tea. I'm sitting on the sofa in the living room wearing my pyjamas – grey sweatpants and a navy shirt. I bring my knees onto the cushions, sinking into myself.

This isn't my first time dealing with death, but it never gets an easier.

Bebe returns with two tea cups in hand, setting them on the coffee table – one for me and one for her. She sits down next to me and asks, "How are you holding up?"

"Fine," I murmur.

She sighs. "You think I'm completely unaware, don't you? I know you're the kind of guy who likes to deal with things alone… but it isn't bad to ask for help, Craig. It isn't bad to admit you're upset and you don't know what to do. You don't need all the answers."

"Everyone wants answers from me," I whisper, "and I can't give them any because I don't know them myself… I can't even be around my family right now." I pause, closing my eyes. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay," she relents, not prying anymore.

"Distract me," I challenge her.

"You and Kenny are working awful closely lately, I see," Bebe notes.

I peer at her. "Says who?"

"Says Kyle," she reveals.

Kenny and Kyle live together. Stan used to live with them, but when he got married to Wendy he moved out and they got a place together in the upper part of town.

"Kenny's nice," I say simply.

"And hot," Bebe adds. "He's a babe. You guys would look good together."

Of course, she's right. Kenny is a good looking guy. He's tall and he's slender, but fit. He has dirty blond hair – it's shorter than he used to wear it in high school, but it's still pretty shaggy. His skin is tanned and freckled and he has blue eyes that are much like mine. He's always smiling. I think that's where we differ the most. I smile so rarely and when I do it's just to be polite. It's not something that comes naturally.

We get along well enough in the office, but what else is there?

"I don't care about that," I admit. "I don't just want a handsome guy. I want someone I can connect with intellectually."

"Yeah, yeah, but maybe you will be able to connect with him intellectually," Bebe says. "Maybe he wants the same thing. You think he's so shallow, but he's not. He's a really, really decent guy. If you would get over your bitterness towards 'the man', then maybe you would see that."

I let out a sigh. I'm beginning to grow annoyed with her, but the last thing I want to do is express that. I know she's only trying to help me.

"Bebe, this isn't really any of your business, is it?" I state. "I don't know why you're getting so worked up."

"Because I want you to be happy!" she exclaims.

"I am," I tell her.

"You're not!" she argues.

"I'm content," I insist.

"Being content and being happy are two different things…" she murmurs. "You're still so damaged from the last man you fell for… and I get it. First loves always hit you the hardest, but just because he was your first, it doesn't mean he has to be your last! Just because he disappointed you, it doesn't mean all relationships are doomed!"

I hold up a hand to tell her to be quiet. "Bebe… I'm really not in the mood to talk about this anymore."

"You always say that," she points out. "You're never in the mood to talk about anything important. You bottle up everything. It isn't healthy. You'll go nuts."

"I won't go _nuts_ ," I insist, finally reaching for my tea and taking a sip. It's cooled down by now. "I will give thought to what you're saying. Fair?"

She lets out a breath and nods. "Fair."

* * *

The following afternoon, Kenny tells me that Lola never showed up for work. Lola is Kenny's partner, so he is understandably upset and worried – especially since there is a killer preying on pretty women. Lola is definitely a pretty woman… but she's also a cop. She has status. People know when she isn't around. The killer's modus operandi doesn't seem to be kidnapping women who he thinks will be missed.

"I wouldn't start to worry just yet," I tell him. "She's a cop. The killer wouldn't go after a cop… right?"

"I don't know," Kenny whispers, pulling at his hair. "We still don't fucking know anything about him…! God, this investigation is a joke… _I'm_ a joke…"

"You're not…" I say. "You're new at this. You have other people on your team - Jason, Kevin, Clyde. It's not all on you."

We're in my office again. He's pacing, unsure where to go from here. I feel once again helpless in the presence of someone asking for answers.

"She's been missing for twenty-one hours," Kenny says gravely. "God, if she dies…" he trails off, breathing heavily.

"Stop, stop, stop," I tell him, cupping his face in my hands and trying to calm him down. "Stop, Kenny. No what-ifs. Go over the evidence again. Try to look for connections. Stay focused." I let my hands fall and I just stare at him. He stares back, looking at me with an openly vulnerable expression. It makes me feel uncomfortable – not because of him, but because of me. I'm just not used to comforting people. I try to avoid situations like this because I'm no good at making people feel better. I doubt that has changed. Lately these situations seem to keep finding me.

* * *

After my shift, Kenny catches me on my way to my car.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," I echo. "Sorry about earlier. I'm… not really good with sad situations."

"You were fine," he promises, "and it meant a lot that you actually tried."

I smile wearily. "Well, I'm glad."

"Want to come to my place?" he asks. "I just… It sounds dumb, but I just want company and I'm going to be alone all night otherwise."

"Oh, uh… yeah, sure," I accept.

He gives me the address and asks me to meet him there when he is off – which isn't for another couple hours. So, I head home first. Bebe is already there and she has a sly smile on her face when I tell her I'm going to Kenny's tonight.

"What's that look for?" I ask her dully.

If possible, her smile widens. "Are you guys going to have sex?"

I scoff. "That's not what this is, Bebe."

She shrugs. "I don't know about that. Two people who feel vulnerable and are seeking comfort… It might turn into sex."

"I never thought about it like that," I admit, but I suppose she is right.

Is that what I want? I can't really say. Sex of any kind isn't something I ever really plan. It always just kind of happens. I've only slept with one person before, though, so my experience is very limited.

"Well, you deserve a night of fun," Bebe says. "God knows it's been long enough. Four years without sex? I don't know how you manage it."

"I don't think about sexual intercourse," I admit. "I mean, I like it. I think it feels good. It's nice to connect with someone on a level that intimate, but it requires a certain level of trust… and I have a hard time trusting people enough to want to sleep with them."

She's smiling. "Kenny is one of the good ones, Craig. He won't hurt you."

I want to believe her, but I still have my doubts. I'm not sure if they are rational fears or irrational. Something tells me it's the latter, but that doesn't change the way I feel.

I shower and get dressed in something more casual than my work attire. I always wear slacks and dress shirts to work. I like to look professional. Tonight, however, I'm wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. They feel weird. I don't wear jeans often. I almost feel undressed wearing these kinds of clothes.

With a sigh, I grab my coat and slip into a pair of sneakers before leaving.

I feel nervous. I don't know why.

I never do this sort of thing. I never visit people. I don't have many friends. I see Tweek, Clyde, Token and Jimmy so rarely these days. The only reason I see Bebe is because we live together.

Kenny is… new, even though he isn't. I have known him for almost my entire life, yet we barely know anything about one another.

When I get to his apartment building, he buzzes me in and I head to his floor.

"Kyle isn't home," Kenny says as he lets me in. "He works a lot of nights."

I nod my head, stepping in glancing around the front entrance. There are photographs everywhere – some of Kenny and his fellow cops, some of Kyle and Bebe on various vacations. There's a picture of Kyle in uniform. He's a firefighter. Bebe has always had a thing for guys in uniform. She has dated a few guys Kenny has worked with. Kyle is her latest. They've been dating for two years. Bebe says he's _the one_.

I slip out of my sneakers and Kenny takes my coat, hanging it up in the closet.

"Want a drink?" he offers. "I have water, soda, milk, beer… rum. I can make you a rum and coke."

"Soda is fine," I say as he leads me into the kitchen. "I'm driving tonight." I sit at the table and he opens the fridge, grabbing two cans.

"So, uh…" he pauses, setting the bottle in front of me before sitting next to me at the table. "How are you? I mean, your cousin…"

I let out a sigh, wrapping my hands around the can. "I try not to think about it in a way that isn't objective. I'm trying to think about it the way I think about everything else – like a doctor. It's hard, though. Well, harder than hard. It's pretty much impossible."

"Craig, why don't you just allow yourself to be sad?" he asks. "Why prolong the grieving process? If you don't grieve, you don't move on."

"I do grieve," I insist. "I just do so silently."

"That isn't really the same."

"It is difficult for me to be vulnerable, even if I do it alone," I confess. "I feel like I should always be strong."

"Sometimes strength is letting yourself be open, though," Kenny argues.

I wrinkle my nose, disagreeing. I hate feeling like I'm the one on the metal table with my guts flopping out. That's exactly how I feel when someone sees me acting vulnerable. I don't like it. I don't tell this to Kenny, though. I think he'd laugh.

"What about you?" I return. "How are you doing?"

"I'm worried," he admits, "but I guess we don't need to talk about anything serious. I called you over because I want to talk, but I don't want to talk about sad shit. Just… happy shit, I guess."

"You want me to be your distraction," I say, reading between the lines.

He smiles slightly. "Yeah, kind of… though, that isn't the word I would use. You're more than a distraction. I called you here because I want you here."

"I know you're a cop… but I don't mind you as much," I admit.

Kenny stares at me for a moment and then he inches forward slowly, almost like he's asking me for permission. When I don't protest, he closes the gap between our mouths in the form of a quick peck.

"You're very forward," I comment when he pulls away.

Kenny smiles at that and says, "I knew I could charm you."

I smile back slightly before glancing down at my drink and finally opening it to take a sip. "You know… I have very little experience with things like this."

"Like what?" he asks.

"Other people," I say. "Living, breathing people… relationships, intimacy."

"Tell me more about the last guy…" he requests. "I know you don't talk about it often… but if it's okay, I'd like to know."

I let out a breath, sitting back in my seat. For a moment, I'm quiet and contemplative before starting with, "We met when I was nineteen. I heard about him a year before that. People said his classes were the best. So, in my second year, I took my first course with him… and I loved it. I took more courses with him. I would look for him outside of class, asking for help even when I knew I didn't need it. I guess it was childish, but it's how I got his attention. He told me I was his best student. I think he saw potential in me, because the rest of the class were a group of idiots compared to me."

I glance at Kenny, looking for some sort of reaction. I don't tell people this story because I don't want them to think I'm a victim. I'm not a victim. I knew what I was doing. I set my sights on what I wanted and I aimed.

"When I was twenty-two I was working on my final essay for his class on forensic pathology," I say. "I wrote about documenting sexual assault during autopsies. He helped me with it. We got close. I guess the topic was grim, but… we ended up acting out on the tension in his office. Then we secretly began to date. Things were… good. Really good. I knew I loved him before we even started to date." I pause again and glance at Kenny again.

"I'm not judging," he promises.

"It was no longer a secret when I graduated," I say. "In the summer, we kind of revelled in the fact that we didn't have to hide things anymore. We went out on dates. We even talked about me moving in with him as I went to grad school so I wouldn't be cooped up in yet another dormitory." I wrinkle my nose, letting out a shuddery breath. "We were downtown one Friday night and he got hit by a drunk driver."

"Craig…" Kenny murmurs with sympathy.

"No," I say with a frown. "That's a lie. I always lie about that part…" I feel my frown deepen. "We were holding hands. He let go of mine and he pushed me and the truck hit him instead… and the asshole in the truck just drove off. A traffic camera caught the license plate and the guy got arrested, but still. The damage was done."

I feel the familiar lump starting to form in my throat. It always happens when I think about that particular night. I think it's the worst night of my life, yet it's my rawest memory.

For a time, I thought it was some sort of punishment. I thought it was my punishment for being with a man over a woman. I realize that it sounds stupid, but it's still something I couldn't help but wonder.

"The truck came so fast, he just… was thrown across the street," I say shakily. "I ran to him and he was so… mutilated. He hit the ground so hard I could see his bones. I knew he was already gone, but I kept trying to talk to him." My eyes glaze over and grow wet because this is the part of the story I hate the most. "It's stupid… I just… I feel like I shouldn't move on because it's unfair to him… I don't want to leave him behind."

"Craig, life is for the living," Kenny says gently. "You can't spend your life waiting around for someone who can't be there for you."

I sniffle. I feel immensely self-conscious, but I'm trying not to be. I stare off into empty space, allowing the tears to fall. "Ugh, don't look at me, I look gross…" I mutter, shying away from his intense gaze.

"Nah, you're pretty," Kenny says lightly.

It makes me want to laugh.

"He thought you were worth saving, Craig," Kenny continues, changing the subject back to my ex. "He loved you, too. He wanted you to do something amazing with your life. I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted you to dwell."

I scoff, mostly at myself because, logically, I know Kenny is right. He reaches a hand up and smudges the tears across my cheek. "Now I'm the one that needs a distraction," I murmur.

"Then let's distract each other," Kenny says, amused.

This time, I kiss him and then drinks are abandoned on the kitchen table as we stumble to his bedroom. Glued mouth to mouth, we grab at one another's clothing, only breaking apart to remove our shirts.

This isn't me.

I don't do this sort of thing.

I especially don't do this sort of thing outside of a safe relationship…

So, what changed?

Why am I doing it now?

I don't know.

Maybe I just want to stop thinking, just for a minute.

I allow myself to be pushed onto the bed. Kenny kneels between my legs, undoing the button on my jeans before pulling them off along with my shorts and suddenly I'm exposed.

"Hey…!" he says with interest. "You have a tattoo."

I perch myself on my elbows, staring down at myself. "Yeah," I respond. The tattoo is simple: the numbers 14.07.2012 beneath a small bird midflight. The tattoo is near my hipbone. I wanted it to be somewhere hidden, somewhere people wouldn't see. Everyone knows how the general public feels about tattoos in the workplace and it's even worse for doctors.

"What are the numbers?" Kenny pries, staring down at me.

"It's a death date," I explain to him, knowing he'll understand whose. "It's... commemorative."

"Oh," he says softly.

"Did that ruin the mood?" I wonder with a little laugh. "Sorry."

Kenny smiles somewhat sympathetically and then shakes his head. "It's okay. None of this is exactly conventional, is it?"

"I suppose not," I agree.

His smile widens slightly and he leans down, pecking me on the lips again.

"Your turn," I say.

"My turn," he echoes before discarding his own clothing.

His body is stellar – from a personal and professional point of view. I know I'm not used to seeing living bodies, so I really appreciate Kenny's. He's very fit and firm.

"I, uh, haven't done this in a very long time," I admit to him.

"Sex?" he asks.

"Yes, sex," I say. "It's been four years, but, I mean, I'm sure everything still works the same."

Kenny looks surprised. "Four years?"

"Why is that shocking?" I ask with a laugh.

"Because you're attractive," he says, "but I suppose it isn't that shocking if I actually think about it. I mean, I get it."

"Yeah," I whisper.

"We'll go slowly," Kenny tells me.

And we do.

I try not to think of the last time I've been with someone like this, but it's hard. I'm a sentimental person when it comes to these kinds of shared experiences. I wanted my first to be my last, but that isn't how it worked out. It often isn't. Now I'm trying to move on and I'm trying to do it with someone who is so, so different than myself.

We roll around in his bed, kissing, touching. When he's inside of me, it's a sensation that feels so distantly familiar, yet this time it's still different. It's always different, isn't it?

I close my eyes, letting out quiet moans into Kenny's shoulder. I have my arms wrapped around him, keeping him close. It feels nice. It feels nice to be close to someone again. Maybe I've been craving this kind of touch without even realizing it.

* * *

When it's over, I'm quiet. I never know what to say when it's over. Are words even required? I always feel like they are. We lie side by side and we're silent.

"You're good," I comment, deciding to be the first to speak. It sounds funny to say, but I just want to break the silence.

"So are you," he replies with a little snicker as he turns his head to glance at me, "but I always heard that about doctors. People say it's 'cause they know anatomy. They know where everything is and how things work."

"Was this all part of your plan?" I wonder. "Did you want the night to end like this?"

He looks insulted. " _Really_ , Craig?" he grits and I'm mildly taken aback at the drastic change in his tone. "Do you _really_ think that I'd use you like that?"

"Well, I don't know," I tell him truthfully. "I don't know you that well. We weren't close when we were young and we definitely aren't close now."

"I'm trying to get to know you!" he exclaims. "Why? Because I fucking like you! I thought I made that pretty damn clear. So, yeah, I made a move on you… and you actually reciprocated. I thought that that meant you might've felt something, too, but I guess not. Are you just the kind of guy who will sleep with anyone?"

"I told you I don't do this often," I say tersely.

"Well, people tend to lie," he retorts. "I've learned that."

I stare at him in disbelief before turning away and scoffing. I get out of his bed and throw my clothes on quickly before leaving his room. I slip into my shoes before exiting the apartment. I make it down to the lobby before realizing I forgot my keys which are in my jacket which is still hanging up in his closet.

"Damn it," I whisper to myself, sitting on a sofa in the lobby. I sniffle a bit. This is an emotional night for me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because of Rebecca… Maybe it's because I feel like I cheated or I've been unfaithful. I know it is illogical and childish, though. My ex is dead. Kenny is alive. I'm alive, too.

Sometime later, Kenny appears in front of me. He's wearing and baggy, knitted sweater and sweatpants. He holds my jacket out for me and says, "Thought you might need this…"

I stand up and when I'm about to reach for it, he pulls his hand away. "What –" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Before I give it back, answer me one question," he challenges.

"Fine," I agree, crossing my arms.

"How do you feel about me? Honestly."

I pause for a moment, thinking. Clearly I feel something for him. Contrary to what he said, no, I don't just sleep with anyone. I need to feel some sort of mental connection with a person. If I don't, then it seems pointless.

"Well, I like you," I tell him, "which is why I wanted to know if you were using me. I wasn't trying to throw accusations, but you got defensive and it made me defensive."

"I should have known that," Kenny admits with a bleak smile. "You just… have this very blunt and literal way of speaking. You don't skirt around issues, which I can appreciate. Sometimes I take things personally, even when you don't mean for it to be."

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I always say the wrong things and then I feel embarrassed. I never know how to read social situations."

"I'm sorry, too," he says. "I like you a damn lot."

He gives me my jacket back and I slip it on. I stare at him. I probably look like a mess, but he doesn't seem to mind. He puts his arms around me and draws me into his chest. I push my face into the fabric of his shirt and close my eyes.

"Go out with me," he requests. "We'll do something nice."

"Maybe," I say.

* * *

When I finally get home, Bebe is still awake. She's in the living room watching TV. I knew she'd wait up for me. She probably has a ton of questions.

"Did you get some dick?" she starts.

"Yeah…" I say, sitting down with her. "It was good… but then we had an argument. I said something and he took it the wrong way. I suppose I should have chosen my words more carefully."

"Kenny is sensitive," Bebe responds.

"He asked me out," I add offhandedly.

"That's a good sign!" she exclaims, sounding thrilled. "When is the date?"

"I don't know," I tell her. "I didn't say yes or no yet."

She rolls her eyes at that, but I can tell she isn't surprised. She knows me and she knows what I'm like. She is extroverted and reads people like books. I'm the opposite. Bebe can analyse people by the way they act and talk. She's like Kenny. I'm not. I need to ask specific questions and get specific answers. I can't draw conclusions without specific evidence.

"Say yes," she says. "You deserve a good man and Kenny is a good man."


	3. Trapped in the killer's basement

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Thanks for nice reviews :)**

* * *

Lola is dead. Her corpse was found in the same wooded area as the last two. Kenny cries in my office after I'm finished performing the autopsy. He didn't hover during this one. Like the last girl, he knew who it was and how she died before I finalized anything. I knew, too, but I didn't want to say until it was over.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, trying to muster up as much sincerity as I can. I'm not good at these things, but I'm really trying.

I didn't know Lola well, but it still makes me sad because her presence is something I got used to. She didn't deserve this. No one does.

She always smiled at me. She always smiled at everyone.

"It doesn't fit," Kenny hisses angrily. "God… She wasn't a runaway, she wasn't socially isolated, she was a fucking cop…!"

"Maybe there isn't a pattern, Kenny," I say softly. "Maybe the profile you had was just based off of mere coincidence. Or maybe he's just getting angry. Maybe he knows your team is trying to find him."

"We're not doing a good job," Kenny spits out, sounding furious with himself. With that, he stomps out of my office. I don't bother chasing him. He probably needs a moment alone.

I sit at my desk and try to finish my post-mortem report on Lola. I feel tired. I wonder how many more girls I know will fall victim. I don't want to think about it, but I can't help it. In small town like South Park, you tend to know everyone. It seems inevitable at this point. If he takes another girl, it very well might be someone else I know.

I hear a knock on my open door. When I glance up, I half expect to see Kenny again, but I don't. Instead, I see Sarah.

"Hi, doctor," she says, stepping inside.

"Craig," I correct her.

"Craig," she echoes.

"Sarah, don't walk alone," I say somewhat offhandedly. "I know you don't have a car, so try to organize rides to and from work, keep your doors locked… take precautions. He's getting riskier with each move. He killed a cop. People noticed when she went missing. It's like… he no longer cares. You're an attractive young woman and that seems to be his general target. If he took out a cop, clearly he is no longer going after women who have no one to care for them. Maybe he never was. Maybe it was just coincidence. We still don't really know that much."

She looks afraid, but nods her head nonetheless.

When I am finished work, I head to my parents' house. My sister is going to be there. She'll have questions. I'll have no answers – just warnings.

When I arrive my dad has friends (Carl, Peter and Darryl) over again. My uncle is here, too. I think they're all finding it hard to be alone these days. Everyone is paranoid.

I greet everyone and when I spot my sister, I drag her into the hallway.

"Be careful," I plead with her. "I'm serious. Don't go anywhere by yourself. Don't walk around at night. Lock your doors. Be careful who you let into your home."

She is frowning and her eyebrows are drawn together, but she doesn't protest. "I promise," she says.

"Tell your friends the same thing," I suggest.

She nods. "I will." She pauses and then asks, "Um… any news?"

"No, I'm sorry," I say. "The cops are having a very hard time with this case. They thought they discovered somewhat of a pattern, but it was wrong. At first it was women who were alone. Now it's just… women. I've been going nuts trying to figure out what all the bodies have in common besides trauma, but I can't think of anything. They're all different – different hair colors, different ages, different class status… So on, so on."

I don't want the entire town to live in fear. I don't want girls to think they have no freedom, but until this insane pervert is away, theirs safety is the priority.

"Jesus Christ," Ruby murmurs, shaking her head. "Honestly… I'm scared. I'm scared of everything. I'm constantly worried I'll be next."

"Yeah," I whisper. "Just… be very, very careful."

I can't stress it enough, but I don't want her to become more paranoid than she already is.

She takes my hand and we head back into the living room. My uncle Skeeter asks if there have been any updates. I tell them no, but there has been another death.

"The cop lady?" Darryl asks. "Saw that on the news."

"Yes," I respond curtly. I can't bring myself to be friendly to him. "The cops who are working on the case had to throw their initial profile out the window because this didn't fit any kind of pattern. Now I'm thinking that there isn't really a pattern. He's just going after young, pretty women."

My mom tells me to be careful yet again. She always does when I'm helping out with a particularly gruesome case.

"It's fine, Mom," I say.

Darryl continues to ask questions. It's like he wants to know all the gory, little details. I don't want to share them, though. I say what I can, trying not to be too harsh because my uncle is half-crying. It makes me feel bad. He knows exactly what this monster did to Rebecca. He is full of regret. He wishes he mended his relationship with his daughter. He wishes he could have kept her safe.

Towards the end of the night, everyone begins to disperse. Darryl heads home first and I'm glad to see him go.

"I ought to follow," Carl declares.

"I'm going to take my leave as well," I say, bidding my family a goodbye.

I step into my shoes and pull on my jacket before heading outside. The air is frigid, but I didn't bring my car. I don't mind walking, especially since everything in South Park is relatively close together.

"Kid, you walked?" Carl asks, following me out.

"Ah, yeah, I live pretty close," I say. "Fresh air does me good after being cooped up with corpses all day."

"Care for a ride?" Carl asks. "It's a chilly night and the streets aren't safe these days."

I force a polite smile and then say, "No, it's all right. I like the walk."

He nods his head and then says, "G'night, kid," before getting into his car and speeding off.

I stare up at the moon as I walk along the sidewalk. I wonder if I should go out with Kenny. I wonder if we would last. I'd like us to, but at the same time, we're so different. Bebe says opposites attract, but by what little I've studied on human behaviours, it seems like that only rings true to a certain extent. I don't know where me and Kenny stand on that spectrum.

I'm on my way home when I hear someone behind me. I turn around, but no one is there. I guess my own paranoia is starting to get to me.

I quicken my pace, but the footsteps behind me quicken as well. My heart jumps into my throat and I begin to run. I really, really, really should have accepted a ride home.

When my apartment building is in sight, I feel a sharp, pulsating jolt through my system. I shout before falling forward, unable to catch myself. My face hits the sidewalk and my glasses smash.

I think I was just tased?

Before I can roll over and try to look at who attacked me, I'm pinned down.

* * *

When I come to, I feel nauseous and clammy and my head hurts. I'm assuming I was knocked out after being incapacitated. I try to raise a hand to feel for a bump, but then I realize I can't move. I begin struggling, but I'm tied up with expert knots. I'm about to shout, but I can't. Something is covering my mouth. It feels like duct tape. I begin to panic, my breath coming in heavy. Footsteps approach and I feel like I might be sick.

 _Stomp, stomp, stomp…_

A door creaks open and a figure appears – a man, but he's wearing a mask of a pig and carrying a rifle. The fear of God strikes me and I can't bring myself to budge an inch. I hold my breath, silently praying that he won't notice I'm awake, but I know it's irrational and stupid. He brought me here for a reason. He isn't about to forget about me.

I feel bile rising in my throat and I have to keep swallowing. My eyes begin to water and all I can do is ask myself _why_.

"Doctor," I hear. The voice sounds foreign and strange – like it's fabricated. "Open your eyes, Doctor. I know you're awake."

I do as I'm told. The man kneels and rips the tape from my mouth swiftly. "Who are you?" I whisper, unable to bring my voice to sound louder than a mouse. The words come out stuttered and I'm unable to hide my terror.

"I can't tell you that, can I?" he asks me, sounding like he's humoured that I'd even ask.

"Th-then… why am I here?"

Again, no answer. This time, he doesn't even bother taunting me. He stands up and turns around, walking out of my line of vision.

"What are you going to do to me?" I try once more.

Still, nothing.

I try to take in as much of my surroundings as I can. I'm trying to remain hopefully and optimistic. I'm trying to believe that I'll somehow be able to escape. Maybe someone will save me. I don't know.

I glance around the room.

There is a large cork board on the far end of the room. Hanging from it are three plastic bags. When I realize what's inside, my heart jumps in my throat. They are locks of hair.

God… I'm in the home of the serial killer. With that realization, hope goes down the drain. I feel stinging behind my eyes, but I'm trying to hard not to cry. I don't want to seem weak in the presence of a person like this. I don't want to break so easily. I have a feeling that things are going to get much worse for me. If the cops haven't caught them yet, they definitely aren't going to catch them now.

I'm going to die here… and I don't want to die. Death is quiet. It's scary. It's sudden. There are things I still want to do. I want to go back to work. I want to be in my lab. I want to see Kenny there, hovering over my shoulder and pissing me off. I want to tell him I'll go out on a damn date with him… but that's wishful thinking, isn't it?

When the man returns, he is holding a syringe. Then I begin to panic.

"No, no, no…!" I plead frantically, squirming around, but to no avail. I feel the needle sink into my skin, but it misses my vein and the pain is unreal. I let out a ragged scream followed by a string of short breaths.

"Be a man!" he shouts. "Or maybe it's not possible for a guy like you."

Next time, he doesn't miss. Everything gets hazy and I can't move. I feel like I've just been paralyzed. I feel the man's hands on my ankles as he removes my shoes. I don't understand why he's doing it. This really isn't part of his M.O.

* * *

When I come to, I still feel hazy – but I'm awake enough to feel a cold rush against my skin. I'm naked. Great.

"Are you going to do to me what you did to all those girls?" I whisper shakily. The words come out slurred, like I had too much to drink.

"No, I don't like boys," he says simply. "Boys are dirty. Girls… girls are soft and pure and they smell good."

"If you think all of that, then why do you kill them?" I ask before I can help myself.

No answer.

* * *

Time moves. I don't know if it's going by fast or slow. There are no windows in this room, no clocks, no way for me to tell what time of day it is or what day it is at all. Part of me hope he keeps me drugged. I don't want to feel anything. I still don't know why I'm here. He hasn't done anything to me yet.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I tell him.

"No."

I try to control my attitude. "Well, do you want me to go right here?"

He lets out a low growl and then grabs the rope tied around my wrists, forcefully pulling me to my feet. We leave the room and he leads me down a narrow hallway into a cupboard-sized bathroom. I waver back and forth. I can't walk straight and I need to hold the walls to steady myself. I catch a glimpse of myself in the tiny oval mirror above the sink. I look like hell. My eyes are swollen and I'm flushed and I look like I need a shower. I don't let my gaze linger. I don't want to see myself like this. I can't handle it. This isn't me. The person reflected looks so… weak, so hopeless. Then I realize I _am_ hopeless. I've given up. I gave up as soon as I realized where I was. At this point, I don't want to give myself a false sense of hope. Kenny isn't going to swing into this place in the nick of time to rescue me with a team of guys with guns. Reality isn't like it is in the movies. It's a hell of a lot worse. Sometimes the bad guy wins. If all the girls he killed could talk, I'm sure they would agree. He's already won many times.

After taking care of myself, I try to make a run for it, but it doesn't really work since I don't know where to run. I am slammed against a wall and then escorted back down the hallway and thrown on the ground. I try to get up and run again, but I'm pushed back down and hit _hard_. My head pounds and my vision goes white. I lie still.

Should I try to think of some way to prolong my chance at survival or should I just try to get it over with? I don't want to fill my head with false hope, but I also don't want to give up so soon. I meant it when I said I didn't want to die… but I'm not good with pain. I don't want to suffer for days on end only to be murdered.

I feel tired. I'm sure it's the drugs, but my current mindset isn't helping in the least.

The man turns around to face a old, wooden desk. When he turns around he is holding a paddle that looks like it's from a Ping-Pong game.

"So you can't run away," he explains, kneeling down and lifting up one of my feel. "I'm sure you understand. I should have done this part sooner."

With his other hand, he swings the paddle back and then smacks it against the sole of my foot. The sting is intense. I try to contain myself, but I can't. I plead for him to stop, but he doesn't and I feel like the skin is being shredded. Soon, I feel numb. It still hurts, but not as much. The paddle has blood on it. I close my eyes, jolting each time he delivers a swing.

Why is this happening to _me_? Is it because of the work I do? Is it because I was trying to help discover his identity? I should have been more careful. I should have realized I wasn't safe – not if I'm working in such close proximity to the police department. I should have accepted the damn ride home. Then I would be safe. I wouldn't be here. I sniffle, feeling stupid. If he's going to kill me, I want him to just do it. I don't want him to prolong the process. He should just get it over with. I'm not a pretty girl, so he shouldn't want to torture me… unless this is just another message. He wants them to find my body and know I suffered.

God, I'm trying to be rational, but it seems ridiculous. I feel like I'm losing it.

When the pain stops, he forces me into a sitting position and then he raises a camera at me. "Say hi to your friends at the police station."

For a moment, I'm too dazed to react. The flash goes off and then –

 _Click._

I know this isn't important right now, but I can't help but feel humiliated that people I work with will see me like this. I don't want them to.

I always try to remain professional. I like to control the way people see me. I only let them see certain parts of me. Everything else is private. This changes things. This is documenting my vulnerability and then displaying it for everyone to see.

"Are you going to kill me?" I ask evenly. My vocal hoards feel harsh, though my tone remains soft.

"Not yet," he replies. "Are you scared?"

I can't even formulate a response. My eyes feel like sandpaper.

"You broke down fast," he points out. "You act so strong, but you're weak. You proved that – to me, but also to yourself."

I know he's right. I know it. I'm a weak person. I've always been a weak person. That's why I run away from relationships. That's why I could never recover from the death of my ex. I'm almost thirty years old and I wasted so many years being miserable… and now I'm going to die before I've ever really, truly lived.

* * *

My feet began to feel rough, calloused, scabbed. They burn, like he took a cheese grater to them instead of a paddle. There's no way I could stand up. Even if I tried, they would just end up infected because the floors are so dirty. My stomach keeps making sounds. I think it has been at least two days. Knowing that scares me. I wonder how much longer I have.

Sometime in the day, the man sets a bowl of water down in front of me. He wants me to drink it like a dog. I can't, though. At least, I can't while he's looking at me. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of watching me completely degrade myself.

It must be only the second or third day. If I don't drink, I'll die soon anyway. Three days without water, right? God, all of this and I'm still trying to hold onto what little dignity I have left. Pathetic, isn't it?

When he's gone, I inch towards the bowl. I stare down at the water, contemplating whether or not to stick my face in it.

I don't, but it doesn't matter because when he returns he pushes my face into the bowl. "I don't derive pleasure from this," he admits to me.

Because I'm not a girl.

"Then why are you doing it?" I bite out.

"So everyone knows that you suffered and they failed to find you in time."

All I can think is: what now? He won't touch me, though. Not with his dick. So, at least there's that.

* * *

I have completely lost track of time, but something tells me it hasn't been nearly as long as it feels. The hours pass slow. I'm not sure how many it has been. It feels like a thousand, but something tells me it hasn't even been a week.

I wonder who missed me. I wonder who is looking for me. I wonder.

Sometime later, I'm no longer alone. After the man makes a series of phone calls, a brunet girl falls next to me. Clearly, she is out of it because she isn't moving. Her eyes are open, though, and she's staring at me.

"What's your name?" I ask her once the man leaves.

"Heidi…" she says, sounding tired. "Heidi Turner. You must not remember me, but I remember you. You're Craig Tucker, the medical examiner."

"No… I do remember you," I tell her. "We went to school together."

I'm probably going to die soon. If he's bringing a girl in, then he's probably going to get rid of me.

"People are looking for you…" she says.

I find relief in that, though I know in the end their search will be in vain.

"What will happen to me?" she whispers.

"You already know," I whisper back. "I'm sure you've been watching the news."

"Yeah," she confesses. "I was told not to go out alone… but I work in a nightclub." She lets out a laugh that sounds like a sob. "Fuck... Fuck."

I hope he kills me before he touches her. I don't want to have to listen to it happen. I feel nauseous. I don't know if it's from the constant pain or the constant hunger. Maybe it's a mix of both.

"Does it hurt?" she whispers.

"Yes," I say. I won't lie to her. "You start to wish for death."

"Oh." She's crying. I don't blame her. I want to cry, too, but nothing will come out.

"He's going to kill me soon," I murmur. "I don't want to die, I'm just glad this will finally be over."

She stares at me, unsure what to say.

The killer is moving faster now. His first victim was with him for a month. Rebecca was with him for around two weeks. Lola was gone for a week and a half. I don't know how long I've been here, but something tells me it has been even less than that. Funny, it feels like so much longer.

When the man returns, it's with another syringe.

"Your time is up, Dr. Craig Tucker," he says.

My heart lodges in my throat.

I always thought that when I died, it would be quick and painless. I would die of old age. Before any of this, I lived a quiet life. I took care of myself. I was healthy. I helped people to the best of my abilities. I was a good person.

This isn't the death I deserve. This death has been slow. Then again, people never really end up getting what they deserve in life. A good person can live a life of pain and a horrible person can live a life of ease. There is nothing that sets the cosmic scale of balance right.

* * *

When I come to, I'm in a vehicle. In the back of one, to be exact. I'm dressed again and I think one of my shoulders has been dislocated. It probably happened when he was forcing me back into my clothing. For a split second, I wonder if I was rescued. Then I realize I'm not when the man asks me if I'm awake. He's probably going to kill me and dump my body in the woods like he did with the rest. I try to kick at the windows, but I have no energy at all.

I'm afraid to die. Being around death all day desensitized me. It wasn't something I thought about when it came to myself. I never thought about what it would be like to die. It was never on my mind. It wasn't something I was scared of. It wasn't a threat… but now it is and for the first time I'm truly being faced with my own mortality and human fragility. It's scary. It's so, so scary. My throat is dry and my eyes still feel like sandpaper and I ache all over. I've never experienced pain like this. Before this, the worst physical pain I've endured was having a severe case of strep throat when I was eighteen. I'm not used to being hurt. I can't handle pain well.

Soon, the car pulls to a stop. A moment later, the door opens and I'm dragged out and to my feet. I take a split second to glance around. We're in front of the police station. I open my mouth to try and scream, but before I get a word out, he stakes out a pocket blade and swings. It stings and then it feels hot and wet. I let out a guttural moan. I suppose this is it.


	4. Some kind of miracle

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

* * *

First thing I see when I open my eyes (apart from the blinding lights) is Kenny.

"You're awake…!" He sounds relieved.

Then I see Clyde standing next to him. I guess I'm at the hospital.

"What…?" I ask, trailing off. My throat is dry and sore. It takes me a minute to piece things together, but then I remember. I wish I hadn't. My voice sounds so hoarse… probably from shouting so much.

Kenny gives me this piteous look. "Craig… you were tied up and dumped on the stairs in front of the precinct with your throat cut open," he whispers gravely. "We found your glasses near your apartment building. The lenses were smashed. We didn't know what to assume. You were gone for seven days…"

"Oh," is all I can muster up. I start crying a split second later because I'm so happy to be alive and so happy to be safe. I raise a shaky hand, swiping at my cheeks. Kenny stares at me with sympathy. "I thought I was dead," I whisper wetly.

"We all did, no offence…" Clyde whispers, handing me a cup of water. "Everyone was glad to hear you survived." He pauses to gesture to the table where there are countless cards and a vase of flowers.

I sip slowly and then Kenny asks, "The contents of your stomach were virtually nonexistent. You had a feeding tube in while you were unconscious. What the hell happened?"

"I wish I could tell you," I murmur. "I didn't even see the asshole. I was struck from behind and I woke up in a room tied up. Whoever it was… he wore a mask and carried a rifle. I don't know guns, but it was black and brown. It was slung over his shoulder."

"A rifle?" Kenny repeats. "Maybe he's a hunter…"

"Maybe."

Kenny seethes. "Why didn't he shoot you, then? Why did he cut your throat?"

"Maybe the gun is registered and he didn't want ballistics to be able to track it by the bullet," I say. "He has a lot to hide. Whoever took me… he is the same person who killed all those girls."

Kenny looks startled by my admission. "What?"

"I saw locks of hair in bags that were pinned to a cork board on the wall," I murmur. "I saw a girl… It was the same… some of the things he did to me. Not all, though."

"Did you get her name?" Clyde probes.

"Heidi Turner," I say. "I asked her."

Kenny clicks his tongue. "Tsk… her boyfriend reported her missing early this morning… said she didn't return home last night. We're trying to take all missing persons claims seriously, even if they've only been gone for a number of short hours."

"Oh…" I pause. "The man… He was on the phone a lot. He might have an accomplice."

"Come on, tell me more," Kenny says softly. "You know a lot about bodies, right? You're a medical examiner… So, tell me more about what you noticed about this guy."

"Um…" I pause. "Caucasian, middle aged, probably in his forties or fifties. He was of average height and weight – probably relatively fit. He was strong. He pushed me around like I weighed nothing. He was wearing a jacket; it looked like, like it was maybe lined with flannel or something similar designed to keep a person warm. Erm… he wore boots. They looked like hiker boots. I think he could have a sound-proof room because… I was screaming a lot and clearly no one heard. Uh, he has a car, maybe. I wasn't really paying attention to it, even though I should have tried to at least notice the color. I just thought I was going to die…"

"What about his voice?" Kenny pries gently. "What did it sound like?"

"That doesn't matter," I mumble. "He had a bit of a redneck twang, but that's pretty standard around here. I also think he was disguising his voice when he spoke to me…"

"Why would he do that?" Clyde cuts in.

"So I wouldn't be able to describe his tone in case I escaped?" I venture. "Precautions, probably. What he did to me wasn't like what he did to kill those girls. I think he was angry at the fact that people were trying to discover who he is. He wanted you to find me and know I died just on the other side of the wall where you were working..."

"Maybe you knew him," Kenny responds. "Come up with a list of guys in your life who fit that description."

"That's really far-fetched," I say to him. "It's almost pathetically desperate. Everyone knows everyone in this town."

"I don't care," he spits. "We don't have much to go on. I want to find out who the hell did this to you and those girls." He softens and then adds, "He's getting mad and because of that, he's getting sloppy. Killing Lola, kidnapping and tormenting you… He's angry, so he's screwing up and breaking away from his established pattern. You probably got dragged into this because of us."

"That's stupid," I state. "It isn't your fault or anyone else on your team."

Kenny sighs. "He wants us to stop. He wants us to let him get away with it."

"You can't," I respond. "If you stop investigating, he wins."

"And how many more will die?" he wonders.

"That's not your fault," I say pointedly. "You're not the one who killed those girls. You're not the one who tormented me. It was all… _him_ , whoever he is. He's going to keep at it until he's caught."

Kenny looks utterly hopeless. "He didn't burn off your fingerprints. He didn't pull out your teeth or bash your face in. He didn't leave you in the woods. He dumped you in front of the police station intact. He wanted us to know for sure that it was you… because without you, we can't identify the bodies well."

"Think he's watching the investigation?" I wonder.

He frowns. "I don't know… Probably."

Kenny sighs. "I'm also supposed to talk you into doing a rape kit. They couldn't get consent while you were unconscious, so…"

I scoff. "No need. I wasn't raped. They wouldn't find any DNA… and even if they did, the DNA wouldn't lead anywhere. Just like the fetus we found in the first victim's stomach. This guy is under the radar."

"You were unconscious when you were found," Kenny murmurs. "Minutes later and you might've bled out… You were covered in blood and…" he trails off.

Great. He wants to spare me the humiliation of saying it out loud.

"Urine," I finish tartly. "You can say it. That's what happens when you're held captive and tortured for days straight."

"Craig, there was also rohypnol found in your system," Kenny mentions softly. "All of the other girls had traces of semen from the same guy. You might, too."

"The drug was probably just to keep me incapacitated," I say. "I asked him if he was going to, but he said: boys are dirty. He wasn't interested in me. That isn't why he grabbed me. He just wanted to send a damn message, Kenny. That's all this was."

"Why you?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I think he knew I was gay. He said something about me being incapable of acting like a man… He knew I was a doctor. He knew my name. So, maybe it wasn't random. I doubt he knew anything about the girls he took. He probably didn't even know Lola was a cop."

"He cut your throat," Kenny murmurs. "He missed any major vessels, your jugular vein and your carotid artery, but he still tried to kill you…"

"And he failed," I finish, lightly touching the bandages around my neck. "The idiot… must not have known that the hell he was doing."

"You're being incredibly calm about this," Kenny notices.

I force a weary smile. "Well, you know me. I'm good at the whole 'detachment' thing."

But it's a lie. Maybe it wasn't before, but it is now. I'm scared out of my mind. I don't know what I'll do when I'm home. I don't know what I'll do when I'm alone. I'll never be able to walk by myself at night ever again.

"I just want to get back to work," I admit.

"No fucking way," Clyde cuts in firmly. "You almost died, dude…"

"Just… let me get back to work," I murmur.

"Craig, you're involved now… even more than you were before," Kenny says. "You'll have to see a psychologist. I don't know if they'll even _let_ you work on the case anymore."

"They will," I say knowingly. "I'm the only person in South Park who can do this. They're not going to leave me out and it would be inconvenient to call a medical examiner from out of town in. Besides, I'm the best. They know that."

"You're awfully confident."

"I'm just stating a fact," I insist.

He smiles briefly and then sobers. "Please request a rape kit."

"Fine," I say tersely.

* * *

As it turns out, I haven't been sexually assaulted – just like I told them. There was no sign of forced entry, no tearing, no bruising… but there were traces of bleach, which causes me to feel revulsion. I don't remember that part. I suppose that means there are a lot of things I might have forgotten. Kenny probably knew that.

Kenny and Clyde both stick by my side. "Bleach is used to clean…" Kenny starts, trying to work it out in his head.

"Because I'm gay," I say, not even hesitating. "He was homophobic. He's saying I'm dirty."

"But why would he try to 'clean' you?"

"I don't know," I confess. "He's probably a bible-toter who makes it his responsibility to punish sinners…" I scoff.

Clyde wrinkles his nose. "You might be on to something."

"That's the majority of town," I point out. "It isn't really a great clue. Remember when we were kids, the whole gay marriage 'debate'? There were protests all around town."

"Even the littlest details count at this point," he says.

"He had a taser…" I add. "Or something similar. I don't know. That's how he incapacitated me in the start. I heard someone following me and when I tried to run I was tased."

Kenny frowns, looking contemplating. "Do you think… a cop could have done this?"

I glance at him. "Do you know anyone capable of it?"

"No," he admits solemnly, "and if it was a cop, we would have his DNA in the system."

"True," I murmur.

"Give me the names of guys you know who fit the description," he says. "Physical description only. Don't take into account whether or not they seem like a nice guy. A lot of 'nice guys' end up being murderers and rapists."

I frown, remaining tight lipped for the time being. None of it makes sense to me. I don't know how anyone I know would be capable of something like this.

"Just give me the names, Craig," he pleads.

I close my eyes and sigh. "Carl Denkins, Peter Nelson, Darryl Weathers, Jack Tenorman, Randy Marsh," I say, continuing to list half of the fathers of my high school peers, people my mother works with, people my father works with, so on.

Kenny scribbles the names down on a notepad and then says, "I'm going to put their names through the system and see who has a record."

I nod my head lazily. "Let me know how it goes."

When Kenny leaves, Clyde hovers for a moment longer. "There will be two cops stationed outside your door in case whoever tried to kill you decides to come back and attempt to finish the job."

"Great," I mutter.

He pauses, staring at me. "You guys… seem close," he comments offhandedly. "You and Kenny, I mean. He was really, really freaked out when you disappeared. Even more so when your glasses were found smashed. No street cameras caught anything, so we were at a loss."

I smile wearily. "Say what you want, Clyde."

"I just…" he trails off. "You deserve to be happy. Kenny will make you happy. He's a good guy."

"That's what I hear," I say.

With that, Clyde smiles and nods before following Kenny out. Once my room is cop-free, my parents come piling through the door with Bebe, my uncle and my sister.

"They wouldn't let us in!" Ruby exclaims, annoyed.

"The cops had to talk to me first," I tell her. "Sorry."

She is the first to lean over my bed and hug me. It makes me body ache, but I try not to make it obvious. I don't want them to think they can't touch me now, especially since I know they all want to.

Everyone looks sad – sad for me and everything I went through.

My mom sits on the edge of the hospital bed, touching my cheek. "I'm so, so sorry, sweetie…"

"So am I," I whisper. "You must have been worried…"

Ruby scoffs. "Stop it, Craig. Fuck! Stop thinking about everyone else when it's _you_ who is hurt. You're the one who… who almost got fucking _killed_!"

I guess they talked to the cops as well.

"I don't want to talk about that," I admit. If they already know the general details of what I went through, then there's no reason why I should have to revisit it. I really don't want them to worry. Besides, if I keep thinking about, I'll lose my mind and I really don't want to lose my mind. I want my mind to stay sharp, then I can use what I know to try and catch the asshole who did this to me.

"Do you remember anything…?" my uncle Skeeter asks.

"I told the cops what I know," I say. "Um… they have a few suspects."

My mom runs a hand through my unwashed hair. "Poor babe. You must have been so scared…"

"Yeah," I murmur robotically.

I mostly just want to shower. I want to wash away the filth of the past seven days. I feel disgusting, but I know that there's no way in hell I'd be allowed. My stitches are fresh – just like this nearly fatal wound. If the guy knew a bit more about the human body, he might've succeeded. I don't think he let me live on purpose. I don't see why he would have wanted me to survive.

"We'll need to order you a new pair of glasses," Dad says. "You don't look yourself without 'em."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I'll need them."

"Kenny was really stressing himself out," Bebe adds. "I think he blamed himself. You're helping out a lot in this case and he's been dependent. He feels like if he backed off a bit, then maybe you wouldn't have got kidnapped."

"I know," I murmur. "He said that to me… I told him it was stupid. He didn't do this to me so he shouldn't be sorry. It is completely irrational that he thinks it's his fault."

Bebe smiles wearily. "He wasn't thinking rationally, Craig. He just wanted to get you back. I think he would have liked to figure it all out and swoop in and be the one to rescue you."

"I wanted that to happen," I admit. "I just… I wanted someone to help me… but no one did. It was stupid. I ended up giving in. It was a hopeless situation."

I can tell no one really knows what to say. I can tell my uncle wants to ask me more questions. Then he can try to figure out who it is and kill the man responsible for it all.

I think he really would. He would kill the man and then he'd turn himself in, saying he did what had to be done.

* * *

I am given a face cloth and allowed a sponge bath. It's not exactly ideal, but I don't complain. I hobble into the little bathroom and take off the hospital gown, wetting the cloth under the sink tap and trying to rub myself clean. It doesn't really help. Plus, my feet still hurt. They've been bandaged and treated, so there's no longer a big risk of infection at least. It's mostly just inconvenient at this point.

"Carl Denkins is clean," Kenny starts during his next visit the following day. "Peter Nelson was charge with marijuana possession years ago, but that kind of charge is basically void now. Um, Darryl Weathers has a few DUIs and he was charged for beating his ex-wife, but all charges were at least thirty years ago and he never did jail time."

Jesus Christ.

My dad really knows how to pick his friends.

"Everyone's parents checked out," he adds, "except Stan's and mine." He pauses and laughs. "Typical… Um, well, Randy has a quite a few DUIs, some public intoxication, indecent exposure… Nothing overly alarming for anyone who knows him. He's a pervert and an idiot, but I don't think he's a murderer. Plus, his DNA is in the system. My dad has a major record. So does my mom. They used to, uh, pimp girls out… They were sent away for a short sentence, but now they're out. Either way, they have an alibi for the night you were taken. They were in Denver visiting a dealer. Their DNA is also in the system."

"You actually checked your own mother and father?" I ask.

"I wanted to be thorough," Kenny says. "I wanted to try and remain objective. Plus, Dad used to hit me, my sister, my brother, my mom… So, i thought he could have been capable of doing worse… and my mom basically just does whatever he wants her to do. My mom… Uh, she's really young, y'know? She had Kevin when she was twelve. My dad… He's not so young."

"I'm sorry," I offer quietly.

He just shakes his head dismissively.

"So, you have a suspect?" I then ask.

"Darryl fits the profile," he says musingly. "He's a homophobic guy who abused his wife before they separated. He has ties to your family, so he would know a lot about you and what you're doing to help with the investigation… We have his prints in the system, but we don't have his DNA since it was so long ago. Mandatory swabbing wasn't really a thing and, I mean…"

"There's no actual physical evidence," I mumble, finishing his thought. "You can't really get a warrant for his DNA."

"But bet your ass I'm gonna go question him," Kenny vows. "I'm taking Clyde to his place shortly to see if he'll talk without us having to try and fumble for a reason to get a warrant. I just thought I'd give you an update."

"Thank you," I murmur.

"Look… you should learn how to shoot a gun," Kenny says.

"I don't really believe in guns," I say. "They are too easy to access. No wonder schools are always being shot up."

Kenny laughs. "I knew you'd say that… I'll get you a can of mace or something instead."

I smile faintly. "It wouldn't help… This guy snuck up on me so easily and before I even registered what was really happening I was down."

Kenny clicks his tongue. "It's making me fucking crazy…"

"Don't let it," I say. "I know things are getting personal, but you need to step back and remain objective."

"Let's go over the evidence again," he murmurs. "I like bouncing my ideas off of you. You're smart."

"Aw," I coo, teasing him a bit. "All right, all the girls were sexually assaulted," I start. "They all have rope burns. They were all beaten and pregnant with rings of bruises around the neck… No teeth, no fingerprints, no facial recognition. Locks of hair were removed as a souvenir. They were all stabbed in the womb. Nothing was precise, however. I compared the wounds on the bodies and they were all rather sloppy. It's like he tries to remember how he did things last time, but then he forgets and improvises. Perhaps he is trying to create a notoriety for himself – a signature of sorts – but he messes up."

"Is he killing them because they're pregnant?" Kenny thinks aloud, frowning as he tries to piece things together. "Is he trying to get them pregnant or is he doing it by mistake? If it's a mistake, he probably isn't educated…"

"Or he just hates condoms," I mutter. "A lot of guys are like that. Besides, he knew the three most important ways we identify corpses – facial recognition, dental records and finger prints. So, he made sure to get rid of them all. That wasn't exactly uneducated of him."

"Still," Kenny continues. "You mentioned his weapons being a piece of wood and a sickle – not exactly high end weapons."

"Maybe he's just resourceful," I snort. "We're being pointed in about a hundred different directions. I think it's still too early to make any assumptions."

Kenny gives me a dull look. "Just let me think aloud."

"Okay, okay, you're right," I relent. "You might be onto something, but it still isn't much. There are a lot of uneducated people in this town. He'll be hard to find regardless."

"Yeah," he admits begrudgingly. "We still don't have much on the guy – just a handful of possibilities. We just know he's a middle aged Caucasian man with an average build who may or may not be trailer trash." He stops and sighs before asking me, "Do you remember anything about the property?"

I shake my head. "I was out of it. I don't remember being dragged in. I was likely unconscious… and on my way out, I was just really drugged. I came in and out. I remember being pulled up a flight of stairs – wooden, probably an older property… I was probably in a basement. The house was older. I could tell by the structure of it. Um, I came in and out of it during the ride back before he dumped my body. He definitely isn't someone who lives in the center of town."

"So, he might live out of town…?" Kenny frowns.

"It's a possibility," I admit.

"That's good, Craig," he says to me. "This helps. Let me know if you remember anything else. Sometimes, memories come back in pieces." A pause. "Tsk…" he clicks his tongue. "I still can't believe _none_ of the security cameras picked any worthwhile footage up. We saw him, but not his face. It's like he knew where the camera was and how it was angled, but maybe he just got lucky. I don't know. Jesus, he was so fucking close…"

I frown. Honestly, I'm upset about it, too, but I'm trying not to show it because I don't want to make Kenny feel worse than he already does. He's putting so much pressure on himself. I think most of the town is putting pressure on him and his team. He probably feels like he's disappointing everyone and that can't feel good.

He glances at me and says, "Jason found you on his way into the station. He called for an ambulance and then he called me so I could spread the news… I didn't think your kidnapping and the murdered women would be related. When we received the picture of you, we thought that it would be a hostage thing… and maybe he wanted money or something… but no ransom note followed. We all got damn scared."

"I was scared, too," I murmur. "The pain, the fear… Words can't describe it."

He nods piteously. I want to tell him to stop, but I don't think he even realizes that he's doing it. So, I let it go.

"Anyway," he starts, "I am going to head out. I'll see you later on."

* * *

When Kenny returns, he doesn't have the news I wanted to hear. I want him to say he found the guy and it's Darryl and now they're going to take him into custody… but that isn't what happens.

"We didn't see anything suspicious, but he did have a collection of violent looking pornography sitting out in the open," Kenny says with a snort. "He probably forgot it there, not expecting company. It's fitting for the profile… but still no probable cause. He let us into his house, but he was quick to kick us out when he saw us scoping. Nothing he had to say helped, though. If it's him, he's not going to talk."

"Nothing else you can bust him on in the meantime so you can at least hold him in custody?" I ask.

Kenny scrunches up his face, shaking his head.

"It's funny," I mumble softly. "You might go looking for one thing and then you find something completely different… Maybe it isn't him after all and he's just a perverted man who gets off on gross porn."

"You sound tired," Kenny notes.

"I am," I confess.

"I feel like… this experience has made you seem more…" he trails off.

"Human?" I venture knowingly.

"Yeah," he admits with a weary smile. "I'm sorry."

"You still aren't used to seeing me vulnerable," I say. "It's only natural that you'd think so. You're used to seeing me in a professional setting – where I am cold and aloof. Right now, I'm not. I'm in a hospital bed wearing a hospital gown and I'm in this permanent state of almost-crying."

"You should rest up," he says softly.

"I'll try," I respond.

* * *

When I am able to leave the hospital, my feet feel better. Bebe drives me home and then spends the following few days glued to my side. I let her. I don't say it out loud, but I'm still scared and I don't want to be left by myself.

She takes time off of work for me and when she finally goes back, I feel like I'm going nuts. I'm so paranoid, I feel like I am literally waiting for something bad to happen to me. I feel like I'm waiting for this man to come back and finish what he started.

I'm shaking all over. I am trying to convince myself that it isn't rational, but then I remember that it is. I was kidnapped. I was tortured. Someone tried to kill me. I still have no idea why. I have some guesses, but I can't know for sure and it's killing me. It's killing me that he might come back to finish his shoddy attempt. It's killing me that he's out there right not tormenting some poor young woman. It's killing me that this woman is yet another person I know.

I move into the kitchen and open the liquor cabinet, making myself a drink in a weak attempt to calm my nerves.

Eventually, I decide to go to my parents' house. I call my uncle to pick me up.

My dad has friends over and they're all drunk, watching some sports game… but no one looks happy. My mom gets me a beer and we all sit in the living room. I am sandwiched between my parents and immediately bombarded with questions about my captivity. I answer them curtly and with vague detail, trying to watch Darryl Weathers for any reactions. He doesn't give me one.

"I don't really want to talk about it anymore," I say with finality when I've had enough.

"Yeah, stop houndin' my boy," my dad says, telling his friends to back off.

They put the sports game back on and I try to engage, but sports were never my forte. I let my gaze travel across the room and towards Darryl again. I try to analyse him, to place him, to see if he was the person who held me – the person who tried to bleach my insides. I don't know, though. I'm trying to look for something familiar, but I'm not sure if I see anything. If I did, it would probably just be because I'm trying too hard.

At some point in the night, I get up and move into the kitchen to get myself another beer. Darryl follows me, claiming he is going to fetch himself another beer as well. I begin to tense up as I open the fridge, pretending to be unaware of his presence even though he is right behind me.

"Pass me one," he says.

So, I do and then I close the fridge before turning around.

"I saw you staring at me," he points out accusingly, cracking open the bottle and taking a messy swig. "You have been watching me all night. Why?"

I swallow harshly, not knowing what to say in response. It makes me feel uncomfortable and stupid, like I was caught doing something I shouldn't have been doing.

"What do you mean?" I whisper, growing tense.

"I want you to tell me why you've been staring at me," he reiterates.

"Maybe you already know," I murmur.

"Well, maybe I just wanna hear you say it."

The words won't come out. It's such a huge accusation and I can't just throw it around because I'm getting emotional.

"It's okay," he says. "You don't have to act shy. I get it."

"Do you? I ask tersely.

"Yeah," he continues. "I'm your dad's friend."

I don't understand what he's getting at. Before I can try to piece it together, he's leaning forward. I gasp into his mouth and then push him away.

Oh, my GOD!

"I'm your friend's _son_ ," I hiss in a loud whisper.

"So? Thomas doesn't have to know. I heard Laura talking about you once. She said you dated your professor. Do you have a thing for older men?"

I look at him in disbelief. I don't know what to say or how to react to something like this. Perfectly timed, Ruby enters the kitchen a moment later.

"Uh, everything okay?" she asks.

"Yes," I say weakly.

"Peachy," Darryl answers, following Ruby back into the kitchen.

Before joining them, I take out my cellphone and ask Kenny to come and get me. He doesn't hesitate. I bid my family a, "See you soon," and then head out to Kenny's car. I get in the passenger seat and we're quiet for a few minutes. He pulls out of the driveway and heads down the street.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

For a while, I don't respond. Mainly, because I just don't know how. What do I say? My dad's gay-bashing friend hit on me and now I want to throw up?

"It isn't Darryl Weathers," I tell him, finally choosing to speak.

Kenny frowns, giving me a quick glance. "Why?"

"Because he tried to feel me up just now," I say. "The guy who held me captive had no interest in touching me, let alone sleeping with me."

"Darryl Weathers?!" Kenny asks in disbelief. "I thought he was, like, notoriously homophobic?"

"He is…" I mutter, "and I guess now we know why."

Kenny wrinkles his nose. "Are you all right?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "I know I'm not a child anymore. I'm almost thirty years old… but he made me feel like an awkward teenager again… Ugh. I've known him my entire life. I don't know why he would try and pull a thing like that…"

"I'm sorry," Kenny sympathizes.

"Want to come over?" I ask him.

I think he knows I don't want to be alone because he accepts my offer and we head to my place. It's dark inside. Bebe is still out, I suppose.

"Tell me what has been going on since I was gone," I request, putting on tea.

"Well, we've been trying to take Elizabeth Warren's parents to trial," Kenny says. "A.D.A. is working his ass off compiling evidence and digging into her past. We're questioning her old teachers, friends, neighbours… trying to get information on her family situation and her parents. Her parents are not cooperating in the least."

"Ah," I murmur. "Probably means they're guilty of something."

Token is the assistant district attorney. He's damn good at what he does, so I have faith things will turn out right.

Kenny sits with me for a while. We continue to talk about the case because that seems to be all we can talk about lately. It makes me wonder if we could have a real relationship.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," I say suddenly.

"Huh?"

"It wasn't your fault I was taken," I reiterate. "I've told you once and I'll tell you it again. There is nothing you could have done."

His eyebrows draw together. "For the entire duration of your disappearance I kept going through all of these what-ifs… I didn't know what happened, but I'm the kind of person who likes to keep people safe. It makes me feel capable… and when you disappeared, I felt like I couldn't do my job, like I couldn't keep you safe."

"It's not your fault," I say yet again. "I don't blame you, really. I only blame the guy who did this to me." I ghost my fingertips across the bandages around my neck. "I did wish you would come, though… It sounds childish, but I wanted you to be the one to bust down the door and get me out of there."

Kenny lets out a laugh that sounds like a sob. "Yeah…"

"I kept thinking I wish I had accepted your offer to go out," I continue. "I wished I had spent less time dwelling on the past and more time living in the present. I wished I took things a step further with you. I felt like… you could have been the person I moved on with."

Kenny looks saddened. "What now?"

"I still feel that way," I tell him. "I suppose being faced with death helped me realize that I'm actually ready for more than I first thought." I lean forward and peck him on the lips. "So," I continue when I draw back, "I want to change my _maybe_ to a _yes_."

"Really?" he whispers.

"Yeah, really."

* * *

Around midnight, Kenny gets called into work and I am left alone. I try to sleep, but I can't. Instead, I have a drink. I debate on calling someone, but I don't know who to call. I don't want to scare my parents or my sister. I don't want to bother Bebe into coming home to check on me.

I can't relax when I'm alone. I'm supposed to get an evaluation before going back to work. That's the only way they'll let me back into the lab so soon – if I am deemed okay. The sad part is that I know I'm not. I'm paranoid. I'm shaky. I'm hyper-vigilant. I'm either overly emotional or completely robotic. I keep having nightmares. They come in the form of flashbacks.

I feel like a child who is afraid of the dark or the monsters under his bed. I sit in my room with all the lights on, holding a bottle of rum to my chest.

When the front door opens, I jump and grow tense. Footsteps near my bedroom door and I hold my breath until I see that it's only Bebe. "Craig…" she says my name in a confused tone of voice. "What are you doing?"

I relax and tell her, "Nothing."

"You're hugging a bottle of liquor like it's your kid," she points out. She approaches me and takes it from me, setting it on my nightstand. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I insist.

It sounds stupid, even to me, because I'm so clearly not fine. I'm far from fine. I don't know how I'll ever be fine again. I feel like something in my head has snapped.

Bebe looks at me piteously and I want to scream at her… but I don't. I don't do anything. I just sit still. "Craig?" she questions, sitting down on the edge of my bed. "Talk…"

"I can't," I whisper.

"Why?"

"Because it's difficult for me to be open," I explain.

"Try…" she pleads gently. "You're one of my best friends and I love you and I want to help you…"

I stare at her. She looks so sincere and I know everything she is saying is true, but I still find it difficult. It is hard for me to be open. I am so used to bottling everything up.

"I'm scared," I confess to her. "I can't sleep. I keep thinking I'll wake up and I'll still be down there in his basement, tied up, trapped… just waiting to die… _wanting_ to die."

Bebe looks apologetic. I hate that look. It makes me feel small and childish, like I can't take care of myself. Then I realize it's probably not just because of what I am saying. It's because I'm crying. I raise a hand and swipe my cheeks with my fingertips, feeling even stupider.

I force a laugh and then say, "I know you like to talk… but don't tell this to Kenny."

She shakes her head. "I won't…" She puts her arms around me and draws me towards her. "You don't need to feel self-conscious," she says knowingly. "No one is judging you for feeling this way, Craig. You went through something traumatic. Anyone else would be scared, too. I'm glad you told me and if there's ever anything I can do to help, let me know, because I want to."

I press my face into the crook of her neck, soaking up the comfort she's offering me. I need to have more trust in the people in my life. I need to realize that they aren't all waiting to screw me over.

When we pull apart, Bebe smiles and says, "Let's pull out the sofa-bed in the living room. It'll be like a slumber party."

So, we do and it makes me feel like I'm fifteen years old again. It's a feeling of pure nostalgia tainted with nothing negative. Me and Bebe used to do this a lot when we were younger. She'd have me over or I'd have her over and our parents wouldn't make a big deal out of it because they knew I was gay and I wasn't going to try and sleep with her. I suppose I don't give her enough credit. She's always been there for me. It's about time I notice it.

"Thank you," I say to her.

She smiles. "You're welcome."

We watch Netflix and talk and I feel at ease again.


	5. For better or for worse

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Don't worry, things will start to simmer down after this chapter. There's still another little twist left tho.**

* * *

My new glasses are finally ready. They're the same as my old ones – plain and wire framed. My stitches are gone, but I am still wearing bandages. I'm not quite ready to show the inevitable scar off.

When the day of my psych appointment finally comes, I drive slowly. At the office, I wait. I debate on skipping the appointment all together, but I realize that might be worse than going and hearing what I already know.

I used to see a therapist regularly when I was a teenager - back when I was always sad and angry. It helped. Maybe this will help, too. It's worth a try.

When the doctor finally calls me in, I introduce myself. He introduces himself. He tells me what the session will consist of. He asks me questions. I try to answer to the best of my ability. I try not to lie, even though there are times when it's second nature for me to lie about my feelings. I'm trying not to be that kind of person anymore. When it's over, I am asked to return the following day. The following day, I am given a diagnosis of PTSD and a prescription to help me calm down. Since I cooperated, I am allowed to go back to work.

I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

"Welcome back, Dr. Tucker!" Sarah says, smiling when I'm finally back in the lab.

"Craig," I correct her yet again.

She lets out a little laugh. "Sorry. Welcome back, _Craig_."

"Thank you, Sarah. I trust you've been holding down the fort?"

"Trying," she says. "No one around here can really replace you."

"Ah, yes, my knowledge is vast," I say jokingly.

It's a quiet day in the lab, which I appreciate. I'm not really in the mood for any excitement. I decide to go over the evidence again, seeing if I can connect anything. It's difficult, though – especially since now my judgement is clouded. It is hard to stay objective when I have been victimized, degraded, reduced to that of an abused animal.

I get Sarah to read over my reports, but she doesn't catch anything I haven't already shared with Kenny.

Around six, I drive Sarah home. It's still bright out, so I don't feel nervous.

"Are you okay?" Sarah asks after a few moments of silence.

"I am," I tell her. It's a bit of a lie, but I don't want to discuss my recent trauma with my assistant. The whole thing is humiliating and shameful.

"I wanted to visit you when you were in the hospital, but I didn't know if I should," she admits. "So, I sent a card with your sister."

"You could have visited me," I tell her. "Just because we work together, it doesn't take away from the fact that I've known you for most of your life. I babysat you before, remember?"

That's how it is in small towns. Everyone knows everyone. That's why it's inevitable that I will probably end up knowing the serial killer. That part frightens me. Sometimes, it's all I can think of. It's making it hard for me to trust anyone.

Sarah laughs and says, "Yeah. I just don't know where to draw the line on personal and professional, I suppose…"

"Kenny crosses it," I admit, since we're on this particular train of thought, "but that's because I let him cross it, I suppose."

"Yeah," she responds. "You two seem very closer now than you were a couple months back."

"That's what happens, I suppose," I muse.

"What changed?" she pries.

"We had sexual intercourse," I state.

She makes a surprised sound and then laughs, almost like she didn't expect me to come out and say it. I'm an upfront person, though, so it doesn't make me uncomfortable to admit things like this. Besides, we both have scientific minds. Sexual intercourse is needed for societies to grow and evolve. Though, in my case, the concept is a little less heteronormative.

"I know it's frowned upon to have sexual relationships in the workplace," I continue, "but we don't technically work together, so I thought it would be fine. He's a cop and I'm an M.E. Technically, my work helps his work and that's basically the gist of things."

"True," she agrees and I see her smiling from the corner of my eye. "I'm glad you seem to like him."

* * *

After dropping her off, I head home and take a nap. I wake up around 8PM and it's dark and I hear rustling coming from the hallway. It makes me nervous. I debate on hiding, but I don't. Instead, I grab an umbrella from my closet and leave my room, aimlessly swinging it in the dark.

" _Fuck_!" I hear when I land a hit on my assailant. Then I realize I recognize the voice.

"Kenny…" I say, relaxing and lowering my makeshift weapon. "I thought you were… I don't know." I turn the lights on and stare at him.

He looks sympathetic, like he knows I just had a fit of paranoia. "Sorry… I just didn't want to wake you up. You were sleeping. Bebe called me over to keep you company."

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "What did she say to you?"

"That's all she said," he insists. "She said she didn't want you to be alone."

I let out a sharp, impatient sigh, weighing whether or not I want to believe it. Nonetheless, I digress. "Fine." I toss the umbrella back in my closet and then nod for him to follow me into the kitchen. "Want a drink? I can make tea."

"Tea sounds good," he says, so I put on the kettle. "I've been reviewing the evidence… and nothing suggests that there is more than one killer."

"He was on the phone with someone who knew," I insist. "So, even if the other person isn't involved in the actual killing and torturing part, they are still an accomplice for their knowledge of the crime."

"Are you sure that's what you heard?" Kenny grills. "You were probably pretty drugged up."

"I'm sure," I say firmly.

"Sorry for sounding doubtful," he apologizes. "We just need to be absolutely positive."

"I get it," I tell him. "It's fine."

When the tea is ready, I pour two cups and sit with Kenny at the table.

"I feel like I need to always be talking or thinking about the case," he murmurs. "If I'm not, then I feel like I'm wasting time. It's already been two months nearly and we still haven't solved it."

"Yeah," I agree. "I know… but there's nothing else we can really do. You guys have analysed the evidence from every possible angle and questioned all possible suspects. These things take time. It isn't like it is in the movies, you know. Investigations are ongoing."

"I feel like we're just waiting for more bodies," he mumbles.

"We essentially are," I admit sadly.

"By the way, how was your eval?"

"Okay," I tell him vaguely, not really wanting to get into it tonight.

* * *

The next murder victim is found – same place, same lack of identity. When they bring in the body, I begin to frown because even without her defining characteristics, I know who she is.

"What is it?" Kenny asks, reading my expression.

"Brown hair, slim, pale… I think this is the girl who was locked up in the room with me," I say softly. "She told me her name… This is Heidi Turner."

Kenny nods solemnly. "I thought it might be…" he murmurs.

"I'll still do the autopsy to make sure," I add. "Then..."

"Then I tell her parents and her boyfriend and I bring them all in for more questioning," Kenny finishes with a sigh. "By the way, the Elizabeth Warren trial is going to be this coming week. Her parents haven't been cooperative. Are you still willing to testify?"

"Yes," I say. "That girl was abused long before she ended up in this town. Whoever hurt her in the past is just as guilty as whoever kidnapped her."

"Yeah," Kenny murmurs in agreement.

* * *

Later in the day, I end up at the police department to talk about the evidence with Kenny's team. As I wait for them, I move towards the evidence board, stopping when I notice a picture of myself from the shoulders up. It's hanging up with pictures of the other four victims. I stare at it, feeling unpleasantly overwhelmed as the memories repeat. In the picture, I'm crying and bleeding. My lips are parted and I look afraid – beyond afraid. I don't think there is a word that can properly communicate how I felt in that moment or in the moments that followed.

"I don't want this here," I confess. "I don't want people looking at it… especially not people I know and I literally know everyone on your team."

"I'm sorry," Kenny whispers. "Now that we know your kidnapping is connected to the murders, it's evidence."

"Humiliating," I mutter.

"No one thinks about it like that," Kenny tries to assure me.

"No, they think it's sad," I say. "They feel pity towards me… and that makes me feel small. Before this, I was seen as competent. I was respected."

"You still are!" he exclaims. "Christ, Craig, this doesn't change things. You're not the only person who has been pulled into a case and made into a victim."

I turn to him. "Tell me a story, then."

"First time I got shot I cried," I admit. "I was twenty-two. It was a drug bust and I got shot in the leg… and I felt so bad because it was my first big case. I felt like I blew it by getting shot… but these things happen."

"Getting shot is different than getting tortured for days on end and then having the result broadcasted," I tell him.

"I guess," he relents.

"Sorry," I murmur, turning away. "You're trying to make me feel better and I'm being bitter."

"Understandably, though," he says, not blaming me for it.

I force a weary smile at him. I haven't told him I was diagnosed with anything. I will when the time is right. For now, I don't want him freaking out over me. He has enough to worry about. I don't need to make things worse. I already did that when I disappeared.

When his team finally shows up, I stare at everyone and then start to relay my findings, hoping at least something will help move things along.

* * *

Today is the trial for Elizabeth Warren.

Since Token is the assistant district attorney, so I see a lot of him when I have to testify. It isn't the first time I've done this and I'm sure it won't be the last.

Soon, I take the stand and get ready to talk. Token rises from his seat and begins to question me. He is wearing a tailored suit, looking handsome and confident. He always charms the jurors.

"You are the medical examiner who identified Ms. Warren's remains, correct?"

"Yes," I answer.

"Tell us about the scarring," Token says.

"Yes," I answer. "There was scarring in Ms. Warren's perineum, which can be found in victims of ongoing sexual abuse. She had no skin conditions that would have led to this and she had never given birth before. However, she was pregnant at the time of her death."

"And you believe that her killer and her abuser are two different people?"

"Yes," I say firmly.

"Why?"

"She lived at home when she was at the age when her abuse took place," I explain. "Since it was long-term, this suggests it was someone in her life. She was eighteen when she ran away. The missing persons report says there was no sign of forced entry. She packed a bag and left willingly, post-abuse."

After a few more questions about the autopsy, Token is done.

"Thank you, Dr. Tucker," Token finishes with a business-like smile before taking his seat.

Now it's time to hear the opposing argument. I never look forward to the cross examination. This is why I don't have fuzzy feelings towards lawyers. Too many of them only care about raking in money. They don't care about the victims. I've seen it happen countless times – we can present irrefutable evidence, but someone will still try to justify it.

"The scarring is the only thing that led you to believe the victim was raped?" I am asked.

"Yes," I say, somewhat annoyed.

"And are these kinds of scars also found on prostitutes?"

"Objection!" Token shouts. "Inflammatory."

"Overruled," the judge says. "Tread lightly."

"Are you insinuating that Ms. Warren was a child prostitute?" I ask. "As if, as a child, she even had a choice?"

"Answer the question, Doctor," the judge demands.

"In my experience most sex workers are _not_ under the age of fourteen," I start. "Instead, they are typically trafficking victims who weren't given a choice. The scarring found on our victim are not recent and she was only nineteen when she was killed. The abuse started when she was in her early teen years – when she was still living at home. If she were kidnapped or trafficked more than a year ago, I might believe it… but with the current timeline, there is no way. Even if she was a prostitute, it is likely that someone else was prostituting her and it is still considered statutory rape if she somehow 'consented' to these encounters with that of an older male when she was a child."

"Could you have a slight bias since you were recently held captive?"

"Objection!" Token shouts again. "Irrelevant."

"Hm... I'll allow it," the judge says and it makes me want to roll my eyes.

"No," I say. "Anyone who knows me knows I can separate work from my personal life. This case has nothing to do with what happened to me."

"No further questions."

That was easy. Any attempt at him trying to corner me into handing something he could use for his defense backfired.

* * *

I don't linger in the courtroom after that. I feel angry, the way I often feel after testifying. I head across the street and grab myself a coffee. I feel tired. This case is making me tired. I just want it to be over. It's been a while since we had a case this overwhelming.

Sometime later, Kenny shows up, which makes me wonder how long I've been sitting here.

"You were great in there," Kenny says. "Really sure of yourself, composed."

"How'd you know I'd be here?" I ask.

"You like coffee and tea and this place was nearby enough," he says with a shrug. "I guessed."

I nod my head slowly, staring down into my mug. Kenny sits across from me and decide to pry with, "So, how did it go after I left the stand?"

"The father decided to plead guilty after his wife began to doubt him," Kenny says with a weary smile. "The jurors saw and Token kind of coaxed out the truth. I guess she found kiddie porn on his computer before, but wasn't aware he was abusing his own daughter. That's why the father likely didn't press to find her when she ran off. He didn't want his perverseness revealed. It was easier for him if the girl just stayed gone and he probably talked his wife into thinking it was for the best and she'd come home when she was ready… Bullshit."

"Ah, small victories," I murmur, "but I guess we still don't know who murdered her…"

"Poor girl…" Kenny says. "I can't imagine someone doing that, especially do their own child… It's so heartbreaking."

"The world is full of sick people," I say simply.

"What made you want to become a medical examiner?" Kenny pries. "I've been wondering for a damn long time. When we were young, you weren't particularly goal-oriented. I thought you'd honestly just end up working in a call center or doing something mundane… but you didn't. You went to university. You got your M.D. You surprised us all."

"Everyone must've thought I was some sort of idiot," I say with a snort.

"Not an idiot – just lazy," Kenny corrects. "People used to say you were a sociopath or something. I knew that wasn't true, though"

"I was depressed," I admit. "I was diagnosed with dysthymia – chronic low moods. It isn't that I was lazy and unmotivated… It was the fact that I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and my passions weren't making me happy anymore."

"Ah, I'm sorry," Kenny apologizes genuinely. "I didn't know."

"No one really did," I say. "I was a private person. I still am. Anyway, I sought treatment and I got help. In grade twelve, I was able to turn my academic situation around and I graduated with high honours. I always liked science, so that is what my bachelor's degree was in. I had a natural knack for figuring out the human body, so I decided to get my M.D. and then I eventually decided to specialize."

"Huh," Kenny responds, nodding his head.

"What about you?" I return. "Why did you want to become a cop?"

"I just want to help people," Kenny says with a little laugh.

I nod my head, not prying for more information because I already understand. Kenny's parents were on the wrong side of the law. They had a meth lab, they pimped out young women and his dad beat on his own children. I think most people assumed Kenny would turn out to be like his father – but he didn't. Maybe he wanted to prove them wrong.

"I know you really hate cops," he adds, "and I know there are a lot of corrupt ones… but I try to be one of the ones that don't suck."

"You are," I promise. "Uh… I have post-traumatic stress disorder. I've been seeing a doctor. She prescribed me something to help… Maybe having a childhood history of mental illness made me all the more vulnerable. I don't know."

"I'm sorry…" he sympathizes. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't want to cause worry," I admit. "You seemed stressed."

"I kind of thought something like that was going on," he admits, "but I didn't want to assume. I knew you'd tell me when you were ready to tell me. So, thanks. I'm glad I know."

I nod.

"This is such a sad excuse for an investigation," Kenny whispers. "We've got Denver and Boulder and every other nearby city helping us and… nada! Nothing. No one fucking knows who the hell this guy could be and no one can tell us anything we don't already know."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I was so close to him. He had his hands on me. I was in his basement… and I still can't tell you anything that can identify him."

Every day I go over it in my head about a hundred times. I try to repeat the facts. I try to figure out if I missed anything. I was in a basement. There were no windows. It was a small, empty room that was probably once used for storage. The floors were cold and made of cement. I was kept incapacitated with rohypnol. I was tied up. I was beaten and whipped. The man wore a mask. He disguised his voice. He was sturdy. He was strong. There was no way for me to identify his hair or eye color. He had a rifle. He was probably a hunter. The room didn't smell like anything in particular. He doesn't live in the heart of town. I could tell by the duration of the drive. He has a a car, but I don't know what kind.

I told Kenny and Clyde everything. I don't know what else there could be.

"No one blames you for that," Kenny insists. "It was amazing that you remembered as much as you did, to be honest. You were drugged up and in a lot of pain."

"Yeah… worst pain of my life," I murmur, frowning.

"We ran the girls' ID photos through facial recognition software to see if, you know…" Kenny says with a shrug, sighing. "Nothing was found, so at least this pervert isn't filming and putting the videos up anywhere."

I wince, knowing more than well that this kind of twisted 'real life' torture porn can make a pervert a lot of money on the dark net. "That's good at least… Any more missing persons reports?"

"No, thank Christ," Kenny mutters.

* * *

It's late and Kenny is keeping me company while Bebe is out with Kyle and some of their friends. We're watching television now. A commercial about animal cruelty in the meat industry comes on and Kenny begins to frown.

"Wait," he murmurs.

I eye him. "What?"

My puts the tip of his thumb in his mouth, looking contemplative for a moment. Then he looks over at me with his brows drawn together. "Are you sure it was a taser that hit you?" he asks, sounding grave. "I've been going over the details that might be seen as less important… but maybe they will give us a bigger hint."

"Well… what else would it be?"

"A cattle prod," he says with a frown.

My lips part in realization. "Uh… Yes. That's more than possible…" I pause. "Tsk… I should have known by the voltage. I've never been tased, but cattle prods are much stronger since they are typically used for animals up to two-thousand pounds. They hurt humans a hell of a lot more."

"And…?" Kenny trails off, waiting for me to piece things together. "Who has access to a cattle prod and lives on the outskirts of town – far enough away to have enough privacy?"

"Carl Denkins farms cows," I whisper, "and he lives on the outskirts of town… he has access to all the tools the girls were tortured with because he has a farm…"

Kenny nods his head. Without another word, he takes out his cellphone and makes a call. Then he's gone.

* * *

Later in the evening, I drive myself down to the precinct. It's busy. I push my way through until I see Clyde and Jason standing with their sergeant.

"Hey," I greet, trying to keep my cool but I'm nervous.

"Hey, Craig," Clyde greets in return.

"We got the son of a bitch," Jason adds. "UV lights showed blood stains all over his basement floor. We put out an APB and found him at a nightclub uptown."

"Oh," I say quietly, standing by him.

"He was hunting for a new victim," he continues. "He slipped something into a girl's drink. She's at Hell's Pass. She's going to be fine. He didn't touch her."

It makes me feel an immense amount of relief. Four girls died, but Carl won't touch another one ever again.

"Who was she?" I pry.

"Uh, shit, I forget her name," Jason says. "Blonde girl. We went to school with her. She was a cheerleader."

"It was Bebe," Clyde mumbles solemnly.

A wave of nausea runs over me. "Jesus Christ," I whisper. "She said she was going out tonight..."

Jason winces. "You her friend?"

"They live together," Clyde reminds him.

"Sorry, man. You should go see her in a bit. She'll be coherent."

We are all in front of a one-way window that sees into the interrogation room. Inside, I see Carl and Kenny. I stare inside. I feel betrayed. I grew up with Carl. He was one of my dad's best friends.

"It doesn't feel real," I admit.

"It never does when it's someone you know," Jason sympathizes.

I watch them through the one-way glass as Kenny continues grilling him, trying to get him to simply confess.

 _"You got nothin' on me_ ," Carl says. " _You can't hold me."_

What a joke. He knows he's in trouble.

" _We'll see,"_ Kenny responds carelessly. " _But until then, we have a warrant for your DNA._ " He holds up a piece of paper, dangling it in front of Carl. " _Open wide."_

Carl looks angry. He knows he is trapped. There's no way out now. He'll end up where he belongs. Finally.

" _So, who is your accomplice?_ " he asks in an offhanded manner after taking a swap of Carl's saliva.

" _Accomplice?"_ Carl questions.

 _"We were tipped off that you have one,"_ Kenny adds.

 _"By…?"_

 _"By the only one of your victims to escape."_

" _Tsk… Craig_ ," Carl mutters. " _What did the boy hear?"_

 _"He heard you on the phone talking about a girl you were going to slaughter."_

Carl begins to laugh. " _He probably doesn't even remember, does he? You do realize I farm cows and sell meat to the local markets. If I was talking on the phone talking about killing a she, it was about my cows."_

Kenny starts smiling. _"Is that a confession? You just said Craig was in your basement. That sounds like a confession to me."_

Carl isn't laughing anymore. He slipped.

My jaw drops and Clyde looks like he's in awe. "Well, son of a bitch, Kenny got 'im," Clyde murmurs. "That was easier than I thought it would be."

"Because Carl Denkins is an idiot," I say angrily, but he was still smart enough to get away with this for so long.

It makes me feel stupid. I feel stupid about being wrong. I thought he really did have an accomplice. I jumped to the worst possible conclusion and now I look like a paranoid moron.

Clyde claps me on the back, probably sensing what's going through my head. "It's not your fault. You were in a pretty extreme condition at the time."

I feel overwhelmed – overwhelmed because it's over. He's caught. He'll be put away. There's no way that he could possibly convince a jury to side with him. Blood stains on his basement floor, a confession and the DNA that will soon be matched to him. The evidence will keep piling up. They will know he is guilty. The evidence is too compelling. DNA tests will prove everything, even if he tries to deny it again.

I walk away from the window and sit at on a bench. Clyde sits next to me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Feels weird," I admit. "I thought I would feel better than I do. I suppose this childish part of me thought that when he got caught things would feel… fixed or resolved."

"It's never that simple, is it?" Clyde murmurs.

"No," I agree solemnly. "Can I call my parents? Or is this supposed to be under wraps?"

"You can call your parents."

So, I do. My mom cries. My dad gets angry. Then they show up at the station with my uncle. When Carl is being transferred to a holding cell, my uncle stomps in and starts wailing on him.

"YOU BASTARD!" he shouts, pained. "You killed my daughter! My DAUGHTER!"

I've never seen him so angry. He's sobbing. It makes me sad and I feel a pang in my chest as I watch him let out some of his grief. Jason and Clyde pry him off of Carl, who is now nursing a bloody nose.

My mom hugs me, apologizing. My dad then does the same.

My heart is still beating like a drum. Things will change now. For better or worse, I'm not sure.


	6. Where do we go from here

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Sorry for the late update D: one more chapter left**

* * *

I head to the hospital late into the night and I'm lead to Bebe's room. She's sitting in a bed, looking a little loopy but otherwise okay. Her parents are there along with Kyle and some of her friends - Wendy, Stan, Annie and Esther. They all look guilty, though it isn't really their fault. It's Carl's fault.

"God, Bebe," I say when I see her.

She smiles somewhat wryly. "I got fucking lucky, didn't I?"

"Yeah," I agree solemnly. "Yeah, you really did. What the hell happened? You said you were going to be with friends."

"We got separated," she says with a frown. "That sounds pretty fucking dumb, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I tell her.

"There was high security," she adds. "I mean, I didn't think anything would've happened. I guess that was dumb, too, though. If you expect something to happen, it won't. If you don't expect something to happen, it will." She pauses and rolls her eyes. "Anyway, I'm all right."

I nod my head. "I'm glad... You're honestly my best friend. If I lost you..." I trail off, not wanting to think about it.

She smiles. "You're mine, too. I like it when you talk about your feelings. You should do it more often, not just when you've been scared."

I snort at that. "All right, yeah, yeah. I'll try."

"Love you," she coos in a teasing sort of way.

Yeah, she is definitely herself... and I'm glad for it.

"Yeah, love you, too," I respond somewhat dryly.

LOVE. What a word.

* * *

When she's ready and able to leave, I take her home and Kyle comes along. He keeps apologizing, like he's blaming himself for the whole thing.

"God," he moans. "If something happened..."

"Nothing happened," she says simply.

When we arrive back to the apartment, we all sit in the living room. Bebe ends up falling asleep shortly after, so Kyle carries her to bed. When he returns, he sits back down with me. For a few minutes, we're quiet, so I decide to break the silence.

"I feel like I should have known," I admit. "There should have been some sort of sign. I've known him for my entire life. How did none of us know he was a pervert?" I pause and then sigh. "Realistically, I know the answer. I know people like him are notoriously manipulative. That is why people always say things about serial killers like: _oh, they seemed so nice, so charismatic_. Still, I feel like I should have known... but I never could have. I have no social skills. I can't read people well. I don't really understand people. Even if I had a keen eye for that sort of thing, it would have been difficult."

"Yeah," Kyle whispers. Then he asks, "What was it like to be there?"

"The worst," I say. "Honestly, I can't describe it. It was just... torture. Literal torture. I got lucky, though. I gave up completely. It's shameful. I was so damn sure I was going to die, but I didn't. I didn't because he wanted to show off and he messed up."

Kyle's eyebrows are drawn together. "I think I'd die if Bebe was one of the girls who got taken."

I nod my head. "My cousin got taken. She wasn't so lucky."

"I'm sorry," Kyle murmurs with sympathy.

"Me, too."

* * *

Soon, we find out that Carl's DNA is a match for all the foetuses found in the women he murdered.

I still feel like a failure. I feel like I should have figured things out. It was right in front of me, yet I had no idea. I know Kenny feels similar, but he's the one who figured it out in the end. He did well to piece it together.

There will be a trial. He knows he's going away and he's going away for good. It doesn't matter how good his lawyer is – he has no chance. He knows that… which is why I suppose he makes his next move.

"Some sort of plea bargain," Kenny says with a scoff. "He was probably saving this as his last resort. He knows he's caught no matter how much he tries to deny it and now he's trying to wriggle out of it."

It's been a few days since Carl was arrested. He's been in touch with his lawyer, who is trying to get him the minimum sentence.

"Yeah," I whisper.

"He won't," Kenny assures me, patting my shoulder. "We have him solid. The DNA is a match and even if it wasn't, the blood in his basement along with the weapons found at the scene are enough. We also matched the bags of hair in the basement to the victims. DNA matches for all four girls."

I nod my head, staring through the window and into the room as Clyde starts things up. Carl is sitting with his lawyer who looks like a giant toad. He is wearing an orange jumpsuit. I hope he never gets to take it off.

" _So, you wanted to talk?"_ Clyde asks.

" _My client has some information you might want to hear_ ," the lawyer says.

" _So, share_ ," Clyde says.

" _If I tell you others were involved, then would I get a deal?"_ Carl asks.

" _Depends what you have to offer,"_ Clyde says.

It makes me upset, but Kenny insists that Clyde is only trying to see if Carl has any useful information. Regardless what he pleads or what information he offers, he'll be in prison for the rest of his life. Maybe 300 years will be down to 90, but he'll still die in a cell. Ha.

Nonetheless, Carl looks smug. " _Your partner watching on the other side of the glass? Detective McCormick, was it?"_

Clyde doesn't answer. " _Talk, Denkins, or we'll send you back to your cell. Don't waste my time."_

 _"I was on the phone talking about my cows… but I did have help, too."_

 _"Tick- fucking-tock. You're really trying my patients."_

" _Carol and Stuart McCormick_ ," Carl reveals. _"They run a bit of a prostitution ring out of the flophouse they call home. They sell girls. They sold me some."_ A pause. " _So, gonna let me go now?"_

I feel my heart jump in my chest and the confession feels like a slap in the face.

" _Fat chance_ ," Clyde snorts. " _You still raped, tortured and killed four women. You still tortured and tried to kill our M.E. Telling us about some pimps isn't going to get you a free pass."_

Carl gets angry. He starts shouting, continuously insisting that he didn't do it, it wasn't his fault. Maybe he's trying to look crazy. Well, we all know he's not.

I glance at Kenny and his face goes white. I want to say something – I want to question him, but no words will come out. My throat tightens, closing up. My palms get sweaty and I glance back into the room.

"Please tell me you didn't know about this," I whisper.

He glances at me. "How the hell can you even ask me that?" he snaps.

"You said you knew they pimped out girls," I recall.

"They served their time for that!" he shouts at me. "I didn't think they'd be stupid enough to get back into it…!"

"Stop yelling," I say curtly.

We move away as Clyde continues to question Carl in the presence of his lawyer. Kenny continues seething and all I can think is who in their right fucking mind would defend someone like Carl, someone who is so clearly guilty? Someone who raped and tortured girls? Carl's lawyer is just as slimy as he is because he doesn't look like he gives a damn about the victims.

"I feel sick," I mutter.

"Yeah, this leaves a bad taste in my mouth, too," Kenny says, crossing his arms. "Might not be true, though…"

I glance at Kenny. I don't think, at this point, that he can remain objective. He's heavily involved in this case, but they might pull him out – especially if his parents are found to be guilty.

A few minutes later, Clyde exits the interrogation room. He shares a look with Kenny, but neither of them speaks.

"I'm going to make the call," he says.

Kenny simply nods, looking stiff.

* * *

I wait around until Carol and Stuart are brought in for questioning. Things at the station are especially tense. Everyone knows about Kenny's parents. Reputation matters a lot when you're a cop and this isn't going to make things easy for him.

I cross my arms, standing on the opposite side of the one-way window yet again. Kenny is standing next to me as Clyde does his thing. He is questioning Carol while two other cops question Stuart in a separate room. They are going to want to see if they have anything to say and if they do they will want to be sure the stories match up.

After mirandizing Carol, Clyde begins leafing through papers. I watch, hoping she won't lawyer up before they force out a confession.

" _Listen_ ," Clyde starts. " _We found enough drugs to put you and Stuart away for life… but we will drop the drug charges on one condition."_

" _Oh?"_ Carol asks, sounding apathetic. Dead on the inside. That's how Kenny describes her.

 _"You and your husband were arrested for pimping out girls before, correct?"_

" _Well, yeah_ ," Carol snorts. " _You probably have my file there, huh?"_

Clyde dismisses her question. " _We're investigating a series of murders. If you cooperate fully, then we will ensure your stay at prison isn't a life sentence."_

" _Enticing_ ," she says sarcastically. " _I'm not interested. Y'all are gonna try and play me, well I'm no idiot."_

"She isn't talking," I say.

"That's where I come in," Jason says, appearing beside me. "We'll keep switching things up, do a little good cop bad cop and see if she cracks."

With that, he slips into the room, greeting Clyde and Carol.

" _So, let me be upfront_ ," Jason starts. _"Do you know anything about the murders of these four women?" he asks, laying out photos in front of Carol._

" _Nope_ ," she says without bothering to look at them.

 _"Do you want to be in prison for the rest of your life?"_ Jason asks loudly, trying to scare her. " _You're forty-six years old. That seems a bit excessive for some drugs, doesn't it?"_

" _So? What if I did know some shit about these girls,"_ she nods to the photographs in front of her _, "then what would happen to me? I'd still go to prison."_

 _"I think we all know that drug charges always excite jurors_ ," Jason says. " _Now, again, we can make the drug charges go away if you plead guilty to procuring. Yes, you will still go to prison, but not even for a third as long. Take your pick."_

" _Fine_ ," Carol bites out.

Clyde holds up a photograph. " _First victim, Elizabeth Warren. How did you come to know her?"_

" _Runaway_ ," Carol says. " _She gave me a fake name. Kinda knew it was fake, but yah learn not to ask questions. She needed work, so I gave her work."_

Clyde holds up a second photograph. " _Second victim, Rebecca Tucker. How did you come to know her?"_

" _Girl wanted drugs_ ," Carol says. " _So, we worked out a way for her to pay them off… but then she accumulated a debt. So, Carl paid it off."_

It makes me sad to hear my cousin fell that far, but I try not to think about it. It's over now. Maybe Carol and Stuart's role in all of this isn't that huge, but I still want them to go to prison. I kind of wish that they would just get sent away for the drugs. Then they'd be in there forever… but I suppose that isn't what this is all about. They are here because the cops want to bringing justice to the girls that died.

" _With her life?"_ Clyde bites out.

Carol doesn't answer. She looks like she doesn't care either way.

By the time Clyde raises the third photograph of Lola, the story changes.

" _Stuart and I got Carl girls who were whores and junkies 'cause in my line of work whores and junkies were always around_ …" she says. " _For a price, we were willing to hand off ones that gave us trouble, but then he took that cop. We had nothin' to do with that and I didn't want to be a part of it… knew he was askin' for trouble. He got impatient, though. He said he wanted a new girl, but by that point we knew he was killin' the girls. We thought he just wanted to smack them 'round a bit…"_

Clyde nods his head slowly. " _So, how did this little business deal start with Denkins? Did he approach you?"_

" _He said he wanted a girl he could do whatever he wanted with_ ," Carol shrugs, " _and we thought he just meant he wanted to rough a girl up, so I told Elizabeth where to go. She had no idea we were sendin' her to die. Hell, me 'n Stuart didn't know, either. We just thought… it'd be another date like her other ones, but rougher."_

Clyde looks disgusted. He raises the fourth photograph – the one of me, beaten and bloody. " _Fouth victim, Craig Tucker. Why and how the fuck did this happen?"_

Carol takes the photograph and stares at it for a second. " _Beats me_ ," she says, throwing it onto the table carelessly. " _Didn't think he liked it like that."_ She lets out a laugh, like the whole thing is funny to her. It makes my skin crawl.

Clyde raises a fifth photograph. " _Fifth victim, Heidi Turner. How did you come to know her?"_

" _She ain't one of mine_ ," Carol says. " _Like I said, Carl got impatient. He started doing things his own way. Yeah, the first two girls were mine… but I don't know nothin' about the rest."_

Clyde glances and Jason, who nods.

" _All right, Ms. McCormick_ ," he says. " _You just confessed to two counts of procuring._ "

I move away from the window. This whole thing is bigger than I thought it would be. I never knew so much was going on in this town. I had no idea people this evil were so close to me on a daily basis.

When I see Kevin Stoley exit a separate interrogation room, I approach him. "Does Stuart's story match?" I ask.

He nods, frowning. "We got him on Elizabeth and Rebecca, but he didn't know anything about Lola, you or Heidi…"

"Same with Carol," I murmur. "I guess the rest is on Carl…"

Kevin claps me on the shoulder. "We got everyone who fucked up with these girls' lives, Craig. It's over."

I smile bleakly. "Finally."

* * *

When I'm about to take my leave, I find Kenny on the steps in front of the police station. He's sitting down, smoking a cigarette.

"I didn't know you smoked," I say, sitting down next to him.

"I quit," he admits.

"Doesn't look like it."

He smiles wryly. "It's my one weakness in times of stress…" He pauses, softening. "My parents aren't going to get what they deserve. They sent two girls to their deaths… and they'll get, what, six years?"

"If that," I murmur. "People who commit crimes against another human... Sometimes they don't get as much time as they should."

"They claim they didn't know they were sending the girls to die… but they probably did." Kenny puts a shaky palm over his face, sobbing into his hand. "God…" he cries.

I put a shaky hand on his back, trying to offer some sort of comfort. I think, even if a part of him knew his parents were capable of this, another part of him wanted to believe otherwise.

We sit silently for what feels like a very long time.

He probably feels like a failure. I feel bad for that, but everyone did a good job at covering their tracks. There's no way Kenny would have known otherwise.

"They'll try to turn me into a character witness," he whispers, shaking his head. "I have no good things to say about my parents… especially not my father."

"Will you testify against them?" I ask.

"I have to," he says hoarsely. "After all they did… yeah, I have to." He pauses. "God, I was so fucking close… My own parents knew… They should go away for life. When they get out, they'll just keep doing what they always do." He closes his eyes. "I hate them."

"No, you don't," I say knowingly.

"Well, I wish I did," he laughs. He finishes his cigarette, but neither of us moves. "I'm sorry," he says, murmuring the words.

"Me, too," I respond.

Then it's quiet – painfully so. Neither of us speaks. I stare up at the sky. It's dim and dark and the moon is a bright, glowing globe in the center of all that darkness. I think about that and then I think about how quiet it is.

"We couldn't have done any of this without you," Kenny adds. "What you do… it's important."

I smile to myself. "Thanks. What you do is important, too."

"Even though I'm a cop?" he asks lightly.

"Guess you're not _all_ bad," I joke back.

He chuckles at that.

"Where do we go from here?" I wonder aloud. It's a vague question, but he understands.

"Forward," Kenny says. "Always forward."


	7. Epilogue

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Thanks for reading and kindly reviewing :) I'll be back soon with more stories~**

* * *

Carl was still trying to plead not guilty, even though by then crime scene investigators found the missing teeth buried under the balcony behind his house. The evidence was overwhelming. I knew there was no way he was getting away with a clean slate, but I still felt nervous.

I wanted to claw his eyes out of his skull as I sat there in the court room. I felt like I was in a daze. The trial went by so slowly. When it was my turn, I tried to be professional and reliable. The last thing I needed was to get upset. I calmly stated the facts. I tried to take comfort in the fact that there was no way in hell he was going to win it. Even the world's greatest lawyer wouldn't have been able to find Carl Denkins a way out of this. He dug a deep hole and buried himself.

Since I was the only victim that survived, I had to detail everything I went through while Token held up that disgusting photograph of me to the jurors. It was humiliating, but if it would help sway the jurors into a quicker decision, I'd let it slide.

Afterwards, I headed across the street to grab myself a cup of coffee. My parents wanted to come to the trial, along with my sister. I didn't really want them to, but they insisted. My mom was crying when I spoke about everything I went through. They knew I suffered, but I don't think they knew how much I suffered. I wanted to save them from the harsher parts, but now they know it all.

When I was paying for my coffee, I got a call from Clyde saying the jury was ready. It was very quick, which was a good sign, but for some reason, I still found myself feeling anxious. Juries can take days. This one only took mere hours.

I headed back into the court room and waited. Time went by slow. Everything felt so, so slow.

 _"How do you find the defendant?"_ the judge asked once everyone had settled.

 _"We find the defendant guilty."_

And I felt like I could finally breathe a sigh of relief, but instead my eyes just started to leak. I think I felt inexplicably relieved. I was no longer suffocating. He was sentenced to life in prison, no chance at parole.

Since Kennys' parents pled guilty, there wasn't going to be a trial. They heard their sentencing days earlier. Kenny tried not to think about it, but he still ended up attending their sentencing. They both got six years.

Things quieted down after that. We finally got to bury my cousin. My work was no longer stressful. I am once again performing autopsies on old people. Things felt normal again.

Me and Kenny stopped talking for a little while after his parents' sentencing. The next time we spoke was when we found me in my lab. He hovered over my shoulder as I performed an autopsy and it felt familiar. I felt like I had been waiting for him.

" _So, how about that date?"_ he finally asked.

* * *

My thirtieth birthday just passed.

"I feel old," I say, days later.

"Thirty is the new twenty," Bebe insists. "Plus, you're still hot."

"I know," I admit and she giggles.

Bebe threw me a party, even though I told her not to. I don't really like being the center of attention, but I have to admit it was nice. She knows how to throw a good party. I still remember that from my teenage years.

I felt very cared for. My family showed up, my friends showed up, my assistant showed up along with many of the cops on the force. My life was turned upside down, but I feel like it gave me perspective. It made me realize that I treasure my life. I used to just live life day by day, never feeling like I was moving forward. I wasn't unhappy, but I wasn't happy either. I think that is what was wrong with my life. I never realized there was more.

Now things are different. Now I feel like I'm where I want to be. Then again, I think I have to credit my therapist for a lot of these newfound revelations.

Me and Kenny had a lot to talk about, but I think we both agreed that we needed time apart to reflect on everything that happened.

We finally ended up going out on a date. Then one date turned into two, which turned into three, which continued from there. Now he's mine and I'm his.

I don't think about my last relationship anymore. Now it is just a memory and it isn't so painful. I finally moved on.

* * *

Later in the night, me and Kenny go out again. It's dim outside as we walk down the busy streets. Restaurants are crowded. Men and women are eating, drinking and laughing. Nightclubs and pubs are bustling. No one is afraid. I'm not afraid, either.

I feel like I finally have my life together. I'm not dwelling on the past. I feel… enlightened. I feel proud of myself and how far I've come. People are constantly telling me that they are proud of me and I always roll my eyes, but I am grateful – grateful to everyone who helped me along the way:

My parents, who helped me grow to be the person I am today. They have always been patient in kind, even when I didn't return the favour. I was a troubled kid, but they raised me through it.

My sister, Ruby, who says she's the only one allowed to make my life hell. These days, I welcome it.

My uncle, who is still mourning over the loss of his daughter. I know he feels regret, but he is coping. He joined a support group for parents who lost their children. He has made a lot of friends and I think it is good for him to be able to be with people who know what it's like.

My friends, who never stopped supporting me. Bebe, Clyde and Token… hell, all the cops at the station.

And, of course, Kenny. After much encouragement from Bebe, I reluctantly welcomed him into my life. The only thing I regret is that I didn't do it sooner. She was right. He's one of the good ones. I have a lot of people to thank.

"What are you thinking about?" Kenny asks me, holding my hand in his.

"You," I coo at him.

"Good things, I hope!"

"Always."

We've been officially dating for six months. Things feel right. Things feel just. I wonder if I knew how things would turn out, would I have accepted his offer sooner? Then again, maybe this is why I was so scared. I was scared to move on. When you love someone, there is always that risk of losing them… but I try not to think about that. Life is full of tragedy and mine is no exception, but right now I'm happy. Finally.

"I love you," Kenny tells me.

I smile a small smile. "I love you, too."

We're still moving forward.

 **Fin.**


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